


Veritas (No One's Here To Sleep)

by IdrisEleven



Category: Da Vinci's Demons
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, angst & fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-14 22:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 101,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5761465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdrisEleven/pseuds/IdrisEleven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riario is a post-doctoral political science fellow at Harvard, still under the controlling thumb of his father, when he meets the fascinating and irresistible Leo da Vinci. Are they good for each other, or just each other's obsession?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sins of the Father (Washington D.C.)

The black car purred quietly down the interstate, pointed back toward Harvard. The radio was on, but turned down to a mere murmur, the bare minimum of white noise to quiet the voices in his head, an augmentation to the singing of the tires on the concrete. A susurration that was almost physical, allowing him to settle his metaphorically ruffled feathers.

The convocation had been a success, as much as it could be. The meetings at the Congressional offices had been efficient at least. They were greeted, introduced, listened to politely. Of course, it was discouraging to see just how young junior staffers actually were. All of them no more than a couple of years out of college for the most part, looking doughy and unformed, as if they were not quite fully baked. Of course, they had no authority, no power to commit to advocacy or change. They could listen and appear sympathetic; they could “convey the Senator’s position, which has so far been. . .” and “of course, I will bring this to the Congresswoman’s attention at our next meeting. . . .” Riario did not have any particular confidence that this would result in any changes. But you had to try, didn’t you? Even if nothing actually changed as a result of this trip, there was a tiny sliver of hope, a sliver that did not exist if you didn’t even try.

This long drive was the luxury he permitted himself after the frustration of the trip. The parkway out of DC to Baltimore had been quiet this late at night. Now past the Chesapeake Bay, nighttime along Interstate 95 was a homogenous twilight. The yellow glow of sodium vapor streetlights blanketed the road, eerily shadowless, unchanging as the miles rolled under the humming tires of the BMW. The drive back to Harvard would take all night. He was guaranteed his solitude.

Everyone else in the delegation was taking the train back, cheap coach seats on the overnight route back to Boston. Their last conference had ended after 6, but it was still more than four hours before the train, and the group was going to find a place to grab food and begin the drinking marathon that would undoubtedly last all night.

“Come with us!” The invitation came from Zoroaster da Peretola, a grinning, expansive grad student with a mop of unruly hair. More than unruly—he bragged that he simply shaved it down to the scalp each spring, then let it grow unfettered for the duration of the following year. Now, in January, it was wildly untamed. “Saves a fortune on barber bills” he’d crowed.

Riario had declined, with his usual cold politeness. “Thank you, but no.”

Zo apparently did not understand refusal. “You don’t want to miss the fun, do you?” He looked around, stepped closer, dropping his voice, as if he was about to impart a secret. Riario just managed not to step back. “After three days of what were frankly fucking boring meetings, we all need some serious alcohol.”

Riario stiffened at the insult—it had been his project, and while it had not been effective, he would never have called it “boring.” Zo did not slow down, and his shirt, unbuttoned at least two buttons too many, gaped open as he spread his arms wide. “All the booze we can carry on, beautiful drunk women who might be willing to fuck under the cover of our winter coats.” Zo cast a considering glance at Riario’s own winter great coat, as if calculating just how many copulating couples could fit under it.

When he looked up at Riario’s face, he deliberately misconstrued his expression. “There will also be beautiful drunk men, who will definitely be willing to fuck under the cover of that winter coat.” He held Riario’s gaze, unblinking, his own eyes wide and knowing.

Riario felt his skin heating up under that gaze, and feared he was blushing by the time Zo resumed his jocular tone. “There will be impassioned political arguments, epic poker games, and clandestine assignations. Tell me where you will get a better offer.”

Riario shuddered. Admittedly, Zo was an attractive man, but his untempered exuberance was frankly exhausting. And he was entirely too comfortable in his own skin. Fortunately, Riario had an excuse at hand. “I can’t. I’ve got my car, and I can’t leave it here. I need it back in Boston.”

“You’ve got a car? You drove down?” Zo clicked up a level of intensity, angling for an invitation to ride along. Riario determined not to give him a toehold.

“I have to meet my father before heading back. I won’t be finished until after the train leaves. Go ahead, I’ll see you all back at Harvard.”

At that moment, a lush blonde wearing glasses with enormous black frames slid under Zo’s arm, wrapping herself around his waist and carrying him off to join the increasingly raucous group headed back to Boston. Before he allowed himself to be lured away, Zo cast a last searching look at Riario, and winked.

The invitation was clear. Riario continued to decline it.

The meeting with his father had been, as expected, perfectly humiliating. He had been recognized at the club reception desk, and was waved through to the sauna.

Riario opened the door a crack. “Father, I am here now.”

His father sat, amid a dozen other men, aggressively naked in the steam room. Everyone else had at least a towel wrapped around his waist; only Alessandro wielded his nudity like a weapon.

“Here’s my boy!” Alessandro bellowed, an overpowering bonhomie suffusing the clouds of steam as though the small tiled space was an expensive pub. “Come in, join us! I will introduce you!”

A quick glance at the other men—most of them were his father’s age, though none were as solidly built. No bodyguards here, then. So these men must be quite powerful. Outside this stifling room, they were likely senior senators, Cabinet members, wealthy men seeking to influence legislation with their unlimited funds. There was at least one much younger boy as well, one who thought he was vaulting into the ranks of the powerful, but was most certainly in over his head. Riario took this all in with a single flickering glance—it did not do to take one’s eyes off Alessandro for very long. He would interpret that as an insult. Alessandro was exquisitely sensitive to all hints of insult.

Riario was not comfortable nude. In fact he over-corrected, tending to wear his shirts as closely buttoned to the neck as possible, sleeves with cuffs whenever he could. Riario had no idea who the other naked men in the room were, nor did he wish to make their acquaintance now, if the circumstances required him to strip in front of them all. He suspected that Alessandro had deliberately arranged things for precisely this reason.

Instead, he withdrew his head from the doorway. “I will meet you in the members’ lounge.”

At Harvard, this frosty attitude of detachment worked. It kept the undergraduates intimidated, and it clearly communicated to the graduate fellows that he did not seek intimate connections. It allowed him to move through the community with some privacy. Of course, it did not work here. When Alessandro entered the lounge, the argument they were going to have was already in progress.

“Do you think you are too good to join us? I mean, who are the mere heads of national government compared to your college friends.” The sneer he managed to impart on the phrase “college friends” was impressive. Riario felt his pride rise up, reflexive self-defense. It rose like bile in his throat, demanding the physical release of vomiting it out. Yet he knew that he would have to be conciliatory and apologetic, that at any sign of further disobedience, Alessandro might launch himself across the table and he would have to literally fight his father.

 _Do not rise to the bait; do not rise to the bait._ Riario took a roll from the bread basket, then carefully bisected a lozenge of butter. He was hungry; Alessandro had not emerged for over an hour and a half. Riario spared a thought for the young man he had glimpsed in the steam room, then bit into the dinner roll.

Alessandro curled his lip, managing to sneer at the idea that his son might actually have expected to eat when ordered to attend his father for dinner. It might have been strategic for him to have joined Zoroaster and the others, since it was clear that he wasn’t going to be able to actually consume food in front of his father. He set the roll down, adjusted the napkin on his lap, using the time to compose his face. When he looked across at his father again, the mask was set in place, the façade was smooth and flawless.

“I was not aware you had met any of the students; I am sorry they have disappointed you. Harvard’s standards are likely slipping.” Calm, placid, the picture of imperturbability, this was the only way Riario had any success in keeping his father in check. Social conventions held no sway with him—merely being in public was not enough to assure he would not become abusive, even violent. It came, Riario supposed, because Alessandro didn’t consider that other people mattered. Their opinions, their disapprobation, made no impact on him at all.

This was what Riario strove to project: a polished, smooth surface that yielded no purchase, no crack or divot where Alessandro’s words could catch hold and cause him to break. At least, not where it showed.

“When are you going to give up this damned hobby of yours and get a real job?” Plates appeared and were placed in front of them. Alessandro had obviously ordered for them both; Riario gamely picked up his tableware, but he knew he would simply push the food around.

“I am a post-doctorate fellow, which is quite prestigious—especially one at Harvard. Where I have been some assistance to you.”

Alessandro swung his head up, nothing so much like a bull maddened in the _corrida._ “You think I need your help, boy? You think I need you?”

Carefully, Riario wiped his table knife of non-existent debris, wrapping it in the napkin, muffling its inadequate edge, signaling his lack of weaponry. Once cleaned, he used it to precisely dissect the meat before him. “No, of course not, father. It was an honor you did me.” Head down, eyes on the plate, watching the morsels as he rearranged them, weathering the storm.

“Damn straight. I don’t require anything from you.” _Except perfect obedience and abnegation,_ Riario thought, but did not say. “You need to stop playing with children and come out and wrestle with the real men in the real world. I have plans for you, Girolamo, and it infuriates me to have to wait for you.”

The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway after two in the morning gave new dimension to the word “deserted.” Riario counted half a dozen abandoned cars, although “abandoned” did not convey the full extent of their decrepitude. These vehicles had been stripped of any parts that could conceivably be sold on a gray market, so doors had been removed, engines dismantled, wires pulled and severed. What couldn’t be sold was despoiled: seats ripped open and the stuffing tossed and then presumably urinated on. Glass shards glittered in the uncertain light, rearview mirrors broken and left dangling. There was no traffic here at all, in either direction, and Riario set the cruising speed slightly higher and drove on grimly.

*****

The doors and windows of the house all stood open, even in the February chill, and light spilled across the snow. Julian and his brother Lawrence Medford lived here, and this was the annual Graduate Student Organization winter get-together. Riario hated having to come, and he wasn’t sure why he’d actually bothered. The whole idea of the GSO struck him as fatuous: did graduate students in radically different disciplines really have all that much in common with each other? Not enough to create a governing body that perpetuated itself through elections—self-indulgent, or self-aggrandizing, he wasn’t sure which was more damning.

But Lawrence Medford had asked him to come, and the Medfords were the closest thing to royalty Massachusetts had. It would be suicidally foolish to refuse a Medford anything. Attending a party full of drunken graduate students was not a big ask by any means. His plan was to maximize his presence by appearing well after the party started, and leaving as soon as was practicable. Make an appearance, make certain Lawrence Medford knew he was there, and follow up afterwards. Preferably somewhere that made decent coffee and was much quieter, where they could actually discuss whatever proposal Lawrence had in mind.

Of course, it was nearly impossible to actually locate Lawrence at his own party. Riario pushed his way through the crush of bodies, surprised at how many different rooms there seemed to be. He’d kept his coat on, not wanting to risk losing it and not wanting to waste any more time looking for it once he was ready to leave. Again, the strategy was sound, but the execution was unsustainable. The heat from the house, from all the bodies, quickly became unbearable. He felt himself flush, his hair began to cling to his forehead in ropy strands, falling into his eyes.

Irritably, he pushed it aside, and resigned himself to looking for somewhere to stash the greatcoat. Upstairs, in one of the bedrooms, since all the first floor rooms were full of graduate students arguing, drinking, gesturing, presumably quoting Michel Foucault. Logically.

He was awkwardly shoved aside by Julian Medford, who was charging up the stairs with a young woman in tow. A dance student, probably, given her ethereal appearance.

“Julian! Where is your brother?” Julian didn’t stop, but the girl he was towing did. She turned toward him, her brilliant blue eyes startling and kind.

“Are you looking for Lawrence?” Her red hair tumbled around her pale shoulders. Julian tugged impatiently at her hand, but she refused to be moved. “If he’s not holding court in the den—the one with all the books—and he’s not showing off mixing cocktails in the kitchen, then he’s probably gone back to the garage to get more gin.” She rolled her eyes. “Why do grad students drink so much gin anyway?” Julian tugged at her hand again, and she turned, laughing, to follow him up the stairs.

Riario followed in their wake, mostly to find a place to set down the coat that was impossibly warm and heavy now. He opened the first door at the top of the stairs, and stepped in to drop his coat where he could easily retrieve it.

Of course the room was not empty.

There must have been two people there, the urgent whispers and rustles made no sense otherwise. Somehow, Riario saw only the deep brown eyes, the eyebrows winged over them, and a mouth, pouting and soft. The man, whoever he was, stared back and the moment stretched between them. In the shadowed room, the man’s pale skin and sulky expression glowed like the moon, and Riario felt himself falling into those dark eyes.

There was a noise, some motion, and the man turned his head, breaking their eye contact. Riario blinked, discovered he was biting his own lip, scraping it against his teeth as he memorized the other’s mouth. “I—I apologize. Excuse me.”

He would find Lawrence some other time. He shouldered his coat back on and fled.

*****

 _You don’t even know his name._ Riario could not get the image of that face, that mouth, out of his head. Frustratingly, he could think of no way to learn who he was. Harvard was a very large place, after all, and he could be from any of the literal dozens of graduate programs.

 _You should have stayed until he came back downstairs._ He was used to this, the voice inside his own head that berated him nearly as caustically as his father did. _What were you afraid of –what made you run away like a child?_

It was a distraction, there was no practical way to find out who that pale and pouting man was. Riario tried to imagine asking Lawrence. “There was someone at your party, do you know who he was?” Well, that was unexceptional, between them the Medfords knew everybody. But how to describe him? Pale luminous skin, black eyebrows like raptor wings, mesmerizing brown eyes and a kissable mouth? If Lawrence didn’t outright laugh at him, then he was revealing valuable (dangerous) information about himself.

It was ridiculous, and Riario resolved to forget it, to forget him, to concentrate on the papers he was publishing, the conference he was organizing, the political activities he had agreed to advance. There was the matter of his research as well. He did not have time to chase after a foolish indulgence. The matter was closed.

It did not occur to him that the man might find him.

Sometimes the prey seeks out the predator.


	2. Poker Night

Days later, Riario was surprised in his office, where he was grading the most recent batch of appalling undergraduate essays. The surprise was looking up from the papers to see _him_ lounging in the doorway. _That_ man. The one whose face had haunted him for the last week. The skin, the eyes, the mouth; just as louche and attractive as he remembered. A sight he had not expected to see, had not even imagined.

_Of course you didn’t imagine this; you locked up that idea and threw away the key._

 Too well trained to show vulnerability, Riario only allowed himself the merest glance, but he noticed new details. The hair was a rich brown, worn a bit shaggy but not messy. The eyes were the same dark color. Very casual clothes: a t-shirt with a deep v neck, a cardigan sweater worn unbuttoned, basic blue jeans, sturdy work boots. A leather thong around neck, holding something hidden beneath his clothing. Still handsome, still desirable, even in the unflattering florescent lighting.

Riario took only a second or two to notice these details, and then his perfect manners kicked in.

“May I help you?”

_How did you find me? Why did you find me? Did you feel what I felt that night? How did you know?_

 The young man slouched diffidently—not shy, not intimidated at all. Unselfconscious, unworried about his reception. Confident.

 “We met the other night—well, almost—at Lawrence’s house. I thought I’d look you up. You seem to be worth knowing.”

 

“I’m flattered.”

 

The ensuing pause was not actually awkward, but it did last longer than was usual. Riario assumed the man was going to introduce himself. Apparently not.

 

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You are. . .?”

 

“Me? Oh! Of course! I’m Leo. Leo da Vinci. I’m actually a friend of Zoroaster’s—you know him from the convocation in D.C.”

 

The peacocking pansexual; the invitation he had refused. Of course they would be friends.

 

“Is that how you found me?”

 

Leo laughed, his head tipping back and exposing the line of his neck and the delicate hollow at the base of his throat. Riario felt a sudden desire to press his mouth against that tender skin, nip at it with his teeth, feel the pulsing of Leo’s blood against his lips. He swallowed again, his mouth dry with desire.

 

“You aren’t exactly difficult to locate you know. Harvard’s golden boy, practically everyone knows who Girolamo Riario is.” Leo looked down, brushed some sort of powder off his jeans. The movement drew Riario’s attention to his thighs, and how his jeans lay tightly against them. He swallowed again, harder.

 

 _Why am I so attracted already?_ Some questions don’t have answers.

 

“Again, I am flattered.” Perfect manners, perfect façade, don’t show your weak spots; a lifetime of training gave him the smooth lines to keep the conversation moving forward. “But why are you here? Is there something I can help you with?”

 

He could do it, mimic normalcy, but it was suprisingly difficult to talk to this man. His vibrant youth and sulky face called to something in Riario, something that could make him vulnerable. It was not logical, it wasn’t even explicable to his own rational mind. It would be so very easy to simply stare that that mouth, soft and exquisite, watching it change shape as he spoke. Or to stare into those eyes.

 

Leo smiled _(those lips)_ , a smile that spread across his entire face, lighting up his eyes with delight. “Well, I came because _I_ am worth knowing.”

 

*****

It was, of course, an invitation. “Come to the house. Thursday night. We have an epic poker night. You should come.” A pause, and Leo looked directly into Riario’s eyes. “I want you to come.” That was definitely an invitation, and possibly a double entendre. He couldn’t quite tell if it had been intentional; Leo had delivered it with a complete lack of innuendo. It intrigued him: he wanted to see more of this man.

 

But he wouldn’t be Riario if he gave anything away; he wouldn’t be a poker player if he showed his hand. “I’ll warn you; I very rarely lose.”

 

Again, Leo gave him that intense look. “I am perfectly okay with that.”

 

So Thursday night, Riario found himself driving to the address Leo had given him. A ramshackle house—probably as large as the Medfords’, but much less well-maintained. He couldn’t quite explain to himself why he had come. Leo was arrogant, not a trait that usually appealed to Riario. “ _I_ am worth knowing,” he had said, so Riario investigated him. Nothing too invasive, and he certainly stopped well short of the deep probe his father would have launched as a matter of course. Facebook stalking, of course, that was a given these days. He’d also looked into Leo’s status at the university. He was a graduate student in two departments, which was not unusual in itself. It was the particular departments: art and engineering. He also took a large number of computer science classes. It was well known that the STEM departments had the most generous funding for graduate students, certainly much more than art could hope to offer. He’d been at Harvard for three years now, but was still taking classes and carrying an ungodly number of incompletes. Riario wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anyone with that many incompletes—surely that was a sign of an inability to keep up with the work load and “make satisfactory progress toward the degree” as the university required. Perhaps they were holding his stipends?

 

With that much coursework unfinished, there weren’t many documents he could access—no thesis drafts, no final papers. Leo’s application had some extremely interesting faculty recommendations, however. “Unusually talented,” and “remarkably agile mind” had appeared, along with “highly distractible” and “requires extremely flexible deadlines.” So Harvard had known what they were getting when they admitted him. “A provocateur, but well-worth the administrative hassle for the frankly unlikely insights; a mind unlike any I have seen.”

 

Riario took a grim satisfaction from his research: he himself had plenty of glowing recommendations. The two of them might be well matched intellectually, although he himself had no such caveats on his record. In fact, his ability to focus and perform was as highly lauded as his intelligence. He was not simply brilliant, he was also productive. His CV had dozens of published articles and conference papers listed. His Ph.D thesis was in galleys, soon to be published by a prestigious academic press. He was already writing up his post-doctoral research; his early readers were already calling it a “brilliant follow-up.”

 

So this Leo da Vinci was not going to be a threat, but he might shape up to be a challenge. Possibly, what Leo needed was someone to provide him the focus that he clearly lacked himself. It was an intriguing possibility; one worth considering. Riario felt a rush of adrenaline at the idea of working closely with him. Just the idea of standing close enough to feel the heat of that body caused him to close his eyes, and a small moan escaped his lips.

 

But that was in the privacy of his own home. Here, now, walking to the front door, Riario was completely in control. His great coat swirled around his knees, his scarf and gloves were warm and carefully chosen. He’d debated about a “gift for the host” and decided on vodka. He’d dressed more casually than he would have for a dinner invitation; black jeans and a black button-down shirt with a cashmere sweater for warmth. Student housing was often poorly insulated.

 

The door opened before he rang the bell; Zoroaster, typically unbuttoned, waving a tumbler of wine to usher him in. “Fuck me, I lost that bet. You actually came.” A cry of welcome, mixed with a fair amount of abuse for Zo, came from the small crowd gathered around a large dining table.

 

“Fuck you all!” Zo cheerfully called back. “Fuck all you all! I’m not out until the evening is over and only if I’ve lost them all. Right now, the night is young, and I’ve got one bet that is un-fucking-loseable.”

 

He turned back to Riario, and relieved him of his bottle. “Ooooh, fancy! Ukrainian vodka!” He waved it toward the rest of the crowd. “I’ve got it now, and you’ll have to be nice to me if you want any of this.”

 

A woman called out “I will literally kill you with my bare hands if you waste that in that kool-aid you call punch.” Shrugging out of his coat, Riario turned and saw it was the woman from the stairs at Medfords’; the one with the sapphire eyes and the red curls. As he looked around for a place to hang his coat, Zo took it and tossed it into an overstuffed closet, where it lay on top of a pile of winter wear: coats, hats, sweaters, scarves all mixed up and scattered on the floor. Two lonely hangers swung nakedly from the bar. Riario shuddered, but kept himself from retrieving his coat and hanging it properly, although his fingers itched.

 

“Don’t know if you know everybody. Everybody, this is Girolamo Riario, but you probably already know that. Girolamo Riario, this is everybody.” He gestured with the vodka bottle, “The defrocked nun over here is Vanessa, kicked out of the convent for lasciviousness.” Yes, the woman from the party. Vanessa smiled and nodded at him. Zo continued, “The instrument of her depravity is this guy, Julian Medford, known throughout Harvard for deflowering virgins and getting second dates for it.” Raucous laughter at this, and even Julian smiled.

 

Zo continued his introductions around the table, “This fossil specimen is Andrea, who we take pity on and let come play poker because otherwise he would spend all his nights in a cold and empty bed, and whatever we are, we are a better option than that.” Andrea smiled, indulgent and fond. “That altar boy with the Renaissance curls is Nico, who is not even legal yet, which means more vodka for me. And this. . .” Zo was selling his introductions like a skilled carnival barker, enthusiasm crackling through his voice, “this useless bastard of a bisexual is the single most brilliant mind at Harvard: Leo, who I gather you have already met.”

 

Leo walked out of the kitchen, tossing a lime and a paring knife back and forth, his hands flashing and catching, without seeming to look at what he was doing. His eyes locked onto Riario’s, and suddenly the room felt stifling. It seemed that Riario was always going to have trouble swallowing while Leo was in the room.

 

The group was raucous, clearly comfortable with each other and several drinks into the evening. Zo tossed back the remainder of his tumbler of wine as he returned to his seat at the table, then started to pour Riario’s vodka into the same glass. Vanessa reached across to hit him on the side of his head.

 

“Don’t you _dare_ disrespect good vodka like that, you godless heathen.” She snatched the bottle from his hand while he was still stunned with the surprise. “I am declaring myself in charge of this wonderful gift.” She smiled at Riario, a warm welcoming grin that made him relax infinitesimally. “This belongs in the freezer until it reaches the proper temperature, and I will _dole_ it out to those who demonstrate their capacity to appreciate it.” With a swirl of her red curls, she was off to the kitchen.

 

Leo gestured to a chair across from him, between the youngest and oldest men at the table—Nico and Andrea. With a polite nod, Riario settled himself, quietly self-effacing as he assessed the various characters and the situation. A pile of loose change and a few small bills in the center of the table was obviously the pot—so small stakes. A friendly game, and excuse for lingering around a table with the people one liked to spend time with. Drinks, cards, insults: Riario was perfectly capable of handling this situation. His guard, never entirely down, lowered again to a level that could pass for “affable.”

 

Then he felt Leo’s warm gaze resting on him. Those lips, those dangerously attractive lips, were curled into the smallest of smiles. At that, Riario realized he had been observed, he had been _seen_. Leo had watched him and understood exactly what he had been thinking, had noticed how he had relaxed his guard. Instinctively, he stiffened, straightening his posture, locking down the mask of his face, and even _that_ Leo noticed. And pitied him for it.

 

Who _was_ this man? Perhaps he had underestimated him, fooled by the data he had collected from transcripts and school records. Leo was fully engaged on a human level, could read his tiny gestures and movements. Had already catalogued his tells and his emotions. Perhaps had fully understood the exact degree of his attraction? This could be a _very_ interesting evening. Deliberately, Riario relaxed while looking directly into Leo’s brown eyes, and was rewarded with a warm smile before Zo claimed the room’s attention again.

 

“Fuck you all, you useless sacks of meat, I’m out of the parley, but who else is still in?’ Riraio felt the boy next to him, Nico, rustle with discomfort.

 

“Zo, he’s _right here_ ,” Nico whispered, a note of outrage that made the comment every bit as loud as if he had spoken with his regular voice. Meanwhile, Julian and Vanessa nodded significantly at Zo, who picked up a scrap of paper and made some notes.

 

Leo started to speak, “I’m still in. . .” but Zo interrupted.

 

“You, you demented walnut, are not allowed in this one, because you have the ability to influence the outcome.” Zo looked directly at Riario from under his own bushy eyebrows, and flashed his dimples in a brilliant smile. “Unless you can prove to my satisfaction that our newest guest is a raging heterosexual, and that you have zero ability to influence whether or not he stays the night.”

 

Nico dropped his head onto the table and moaned with embarrassment. Andrea looked around with a bright curiosity, and Julian tightened his arm around Vanessa’s waist, proprietorially.

 

“I mean, the standard of proof may not be very hard,” Zo continued, “after all, he turned _me_ down once, and who does that?” His dark brown eyes bored into Riario’s, but his tone was still light and even flirtatious. A chorus of groans circled the table, and someone said “Anyone with a modicum of taste?” Riario would not look away, but he had the impression that may have been Julian.

 

The stare down lasted only a few seconds, before Zo looked away. Riario also dropped his eyes, in the hopes that only Leo noticed who won and who lost. Zo covered well, or perhaps he didn’t actually care, as he turned immediately Vanessa and whispered in her ear.

 

“I hope you brought plenty of change.” Andrea had leaned over and spoke quietly in Riario’s ear. “These poker nights aren’t very expensive, if you have enough coins to toss in. As the night goes on, sometimes they agree that all coins have equal value, so it pays to bring pennies.”

 

Zo was reclaiming cards and flamboyantly shuffling the deck. “Nickels in to play, nickel to raise.” Riario didn’t ordinarily carry change, indulging his vanity and not spoiling the line of his well tailored trousers. Julian seemed to be in a similar position, and had tossed in a five dollar bill and then attempted to make change from the ante.

 

“Ah ah ah ah ah!” Zo tsked, smacking the back of Julian’s hand. “Not our fault you aren’t prepared. You can win that change, rich boy.”

 

Julian looked outraged. “Vanessa let me make change out of the pot last week!”

 

Zo leaned back and put one foot against the table, the cards still spinning through his hands. “Dealer’s choice, dealer’s rules. Unless you want to try to change my mind? I’m sure whatever you did to convince Vanessa would work on me.” Riario was surprised to see Zo actually waggle his eyebrows while leering at the other man; the challenge was obvious, as was Julian’s discomfort. With poor grace, Julian left the five dollar bill in the ante. Riario put in his own as well.

 

“Don’t worry, darling, I’m sure you can win your money back.” Vanessa poured herself into Julian’s lap, and kissed him to distract him from his bad mood.

 

 

*****

 

Leo had called poker night “epic” and that was a fair description. Riario carefully balanced his betting, chosing to lose slightly more often than he won. He was intrigued by the frequent exchange of slips of paper throughout the night, and by midnight he was fairly certain he was watching a series of side bets being placed and collected. This was confirmed when Leo suddenly stood up from the table and dashed away, returning with a notebook in which he began writing feverishly. Nico reached across Riario and handed a slip of paper—a chit, Riario realized, as he was able to read the markings as it passed across him.

 

“You have a bet about Leo’s volatility?” he asked, his voice pitched low enough that Leo did not even look up from his scribbling.

 

Andrea nodded, and Nico looked sullen. “He usually has some ‘brilliant idea’ after a few drinks. I was sure he had a notebook in one of his pockets; Andrea bet me that he’d have to rush off and get one from his room.”

 

Andrea smiled, and patted the pocket where he’d tucked the chit. “It’s probably unfair to collect this one; Leo does have a notebook in his pocket. He forgot about it and ran off to get another one.” Nico looked like he was going to protest, but Andrea cut him off. “He’s just distracted by our guest here, and that is what you didn’t factor into your bet.” He smiled, a truly kind smile. “It’s all right; I would also wager that his ‘brilliant idea’ is going to be as worthless as the time he left us to write down his plans to brew banana flavored beer.” He patted Nico’s hand. “Don’t worry, young Nico. The time will come when you will be able to read him even better than I can.”

 

Andrea excused himself sometime after midnight, weaving slightly from overindulging in red wine, yet still courteous and gentlemanly. He poured his winnings into a covered coffee mug—an impressive mix of copper and silver that might actually amount to ten dollars—and left the mug in the built-in sideboard. “It’s like recycling,” he said, winking slowly at Riario. “It’s rubbish change, no good for spending, but it’s here for next Thursday night and then my little pennies and dimes get won by these fine people,” he gestured expansively, if a bit off-balance, “and after a while they come back to me. Closed system. Nobody loses too much, it all goes around and comes around.”

 

He straightened from where he was leaning over Riario, and glided to the door, clipping the sofa slightly as he negotiated his way across the living room. Riario’s eyes widened, as he contemplated a man with that degree of visible inebriation attempting to drive home. “Surely you aren’t going to let him just go, like that?”

 

Leo looked up, surprised. “Andrea? He’s only going around the side of the house. His apartment is downstairs. It just has a separate entrance. He’ll be fine.”

 

Vanessa smiled, touched that Riario was concerned. “He always slams the door when he gets in. It sticks or something. Makes a huge bang. So we know he’s home all right.”

 

At that point, Zo got his hands back on the deck of cards. Nico looked significantly at Vanessa, who nodded. Leo smiled knowingly at them both, a shared secret they were passing among themselves. Riario was intrigued; as far as he could tell, Julian and Zo were unaware of this silent communication. It felt—well, it felt like he was a little bit on the inside now, that he was privy to some level of relationship merely by being observant. That although he was new to this group, he was part of it in a way that he hadn’t expected.

 

Of course, he had no idea what the message being exchanged was about, but he was _seeing_ it happen while Zo concentrated on gathering the deck together, and Julian was completely distracted by mouthing along Vanessa’s neck. Vanessa managed to be undistracted enough to raise two fingers behind her back. Nico tapped his index finger on the edge of the table. Leo stretched his right arm over his head in a mock yawn, his hand in a closed fist.

 

Zo straightened the deck and announced, “Lady and gentlemen, the game is Strip Poker.” And Leo pumped his fist.

 

Zo continued smoothly, “I want ten dollars from each of you. Oh look, everybody has ten dollars in front of them except you, Julian.” He smirked as Julian had to dislodge Vanessa from his lap in order to reach his wallet.

 

“I think your roommates only let me come so they can take my money.” Julian pouted, although he also slid his hand inside Vanessa’s shirt and caressed the skin of her waist. His bad mood was passing rapidly.

 

“Julian, we only let you come because we want to take _all_ your money. Except for Vanessa. She lets you come so you can lose at strip poker.” Zo dealt the cards, and they spun and slid around the table.

 

*****

 

The game ended, as expected, with Julian losing down to his boxer-briefs, and declining to play another hand. Instead, he took Vanessa to her room and shut the door with pointed finality. Nico had long ago fallen asleep, curled under a comforter on the battered couch. Zo found himself alone with Riario and Leo, and able to read a room, he shook Nico awake and followed him into their shared bedroom. Before the door shut, Zo came back and took the last bottle off the dining room table and carried it back with him.

 

Riario hadn’t lost, not many hands, and was still mostly clothed. His cashmere sweater was in the forfeit pile, along with his shoes, although he still had both his socks and his shirt was still buttoned to his throat. Leo was more disheveled, but strategically so. He still had his pants, after all. He’d elected to keep the leather thong around his neck, sacrificing the t-shirt instead. In the newly quiet room, he stood to turn out the lights, then turned to Riario. In the moonlit room, his skin shone like marble, the hollows of his body etched with deep shadows. Riario found him exquisite.

 

“You promised you seldom lose. You might remember I told you—I was okay with that.” His voice was quiet and raspy. The sound called something primal in Riario, and he launched himself across the room. Their mouths met and Riario held Leo’s face between his hands, slipping his tongue into that beautiful mouth. He tasted like the liquor they had been drinking, but also delicious, sharp and sweet like apples. There was a dusty male musk coming off his skin, and Riario found himself more drunk than he had ever been on vodka.

 

Was this a mistake? He had no room for the question; it slid out of his consciousness as he devoured those velvet lips. Leo wrapped his arms around Riario’s neck, kissing back as though he would swallow him whole. Without quite knowing where it was, Riario found they had made it into what must surely be Leo’s bedroom. They pushed through, and Riario kicked the door shut with his heel, then turned and pushed Leo against it, kissing his mouth, his face, his neck.

 

The small sounds coming from Leo’s mouth might have been his name: _Riario. Riario. Yes._ They were physically well matched, both of a similar height and build, but Riario’s need was greater, and he caged the younger man with a grip of iron. His mouth moved down, greedily devouring the skin, the sweat, the taste of him, hands gripping Leo’s waist, and then his thighs. Leo leaned into the door to stay vertical, his head thrown back and his eyelids closed.

 

With a growl, Riario all but threw Leo onto the bed, then climbed atop his body before he stopped bouncing. Pinning him to the mattress, Riario rasped into his ear, “I am going to mark you first, do you understand? I will have you tonight, because you lost and I am claiming my winnings.”

 

Did Leo nod? He hardly noticed. The sexual need was nearly a physical hunger, and he fed it with Leo’s body. He traced the muscles with his mouth, flicked his tongue against the nipples, loving the feel of that body bucking against him. When he finally spread Leo’s thighs and took him into his mouth, Leo had stopped saying words, emitting only incoherent moans.

 

Afterwards, Riario could see the red marks left by his beard on the pearlescent skin. Leo’s lips looked like Riario’s felt, bruised and tender: not an unpleasant feeling. He moved up and covered that mouth _(that mouth)_ with his own. Only then did he realize he was still clothed.

 

“Fuuuck” Leo breathed. “How did we end up without you naked too?” Lazy, sated, with one hand he reached for Riario’s belt, putting the other behind Riario’s head, crushing Riaro to his mouth. The kiss did not entirely distract him from feeling himself freed from the newly unfastened garments.

 

“Yes. _Yes._ ”

 

Afterwards, Riario lay spent, his arms and legs delightfully boneless. But Leo was still amped up, his body twitchy as if oversupplied with adrenaline. His fingers tapped on Riario’s skin, a complex pattern Riario was too tired to decipher. “I want to ask you something.”

 

Riario immediately went still. Questions were always dangerous things, and answers more so. They opened doors, and people sometimes walked through those doors.

 

Leo didn’t wait for permission. Leo generally didn’t—it was hard enough for him to keep up with his own thoughts. Waiting for others just slowed him down and sometimes those ideas got lost in the abyss that gaped between his questions and others’ answers. Instead, he simply forged ahead. He knew this about himself; Vanessa had certainly lectured him about it enough times. He also knew he was not going to change: it was something Riario was going to have to learn to handle, if he was going to stay around. So he might as well get a taste of it now.

 

“Why do you. . . . “ Leo gestured to the clothes, heaped on the floor. “Why are you always so buttoned up?” He rolled over, and Riario found himself on his back, Leo propped above him, tracing fingers over his chest and abdomen. The feathery touch made him suck in his breath, as Leo’s clever artist’s fingers traced below his navel and then, frustratingly, back up to his chest.

 

“You don’t need to hide. I mean, your muscle definition is ridiculous. You shouldn’t hide it like that. You should be nude modeling—this is like a national treasure. It needs to be seen.”

 

Riario felt uncomfortable, unaccustomed to talking about himself, even as Leo’s fingers drew distracting new sensations from his skin. He opened his mouth and was surprised by the words that fell out. “I don’t need the money, Leo.”

 

Leo continued to trace the lines of Riario’s body. “Well, no lie, that must be nice, but that’s beside the point. These aren’t just genetic gifts; you have work to get this kind of tone. I mean, if Zo had this kind of muscle definition, he would never wear clothes.” His hand wandered down Riario’s torso again, and again, Riario found himself rising to meet the touch. “You maybe should never wear clothes. At least, for me.”

 

Talk about nudity, thinking about being unclothed, was deeply disconcerting. It was a testament to Leo’s skillful touch that Riario didn’t just get up and get dressed to cover up his discomfiture. He had left other lovers for less. But Leo was touching him—more than just touching him—was looking at him. Seeing him. Seeing him and not punishing him. That alone was enough to keep him still and willing to stay in the tumbled sheets.

 

*****

 

When they exited the bedroom the next morning, Nico and Zo were already in the kitchen. Coffee was warming in the pot, and the two of them are arguing about the many side bets from the night before. Nico’s eyes widened when he saw Riario, who was once again buttoned up to his throat.

 

Zo hurredly pocketed some bills. “We can talk about this later, Nico.”

 

Julian and Vanessa had left already, off to one of the places Julian liked to go for breakfast. Nico decided he needed to go to the library, and Zo left with him. Riario looked after the two of them, a frown creasing his brow.

 

“Your friends,” he begins. “How old are they?”

 

Leo pulled out yogurt and oatmeal, then began searching for a clean pot. He was wearing shorts and another t-shirt with a deep v neck, and he was concentrating on feeding himself with necessary calories. So he was offhanded in his answer, distracted by hunger. “Hmm—well, Zo is—I think Zo is timeless. He’s probably not thirty, but he’s not telling one way or the other. Plausible deniability I think. Vanessa is, oh, 22, maybe 23-ish? Does it matter?”

 

_It might matter. It might matter deeply. It might make it impossible to stay._

 

Carefully casual. “What about Nico?”

 

Leo found the pot, but could not locate measuring cups. He began rattling the contents of drawers and swearing creatively under his breath. “I don’t know, I didn’t ask him. He’s here, he goes to class, he pays rent, he’s good, we’re good except _who has stolen the fucking measuring cups?_ ”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leo here is slightly younger here than he appears in Da Vinci's Demons. Reference photograph here: http://www.fanpop.com/clubs/tom-riley/images/35045880/title/tom-riley-photo
> 
> As always, comments and questions welcomed. Let me know if any additional tags are needed!


	3. Family of Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of fluff: the life that Leo has made with Zo, Vanessa and Nico, before Riario takes up more of Leo's attention.

Vanessa worked at a café, which was fortunate for the rest of them, because when she closed at night, she brought the unsold sandwiches home. They would have eaten much less well if forced to rely on their own abilities in the kitchen. None of them ever learned, and the possibility of learning never really occurred to any of them. 

Today, Saturday, was unusual in that all four of them were home at the same time, eating lunch together. Zo had brewed the coffee—rich and bitter, “the same way I like my women” he claimed. Nico and Vanessa added as much milk and sugar as their mugs would hold. Leo drank his black, and never seemed to notice the difference in taste between Zo’s sludgy brew and Vanessa’s more palatable version. Zo had a bet with himself that he could make a coffee bitter enough for Leo to comment on it. The bet was years old, and it still hadn’t happened. 

Zo could tell that Leo was in another world by the abstracted way he was eating his sandwich. He picked up whichever coffee mug was by the hand he wasn’t currently using to write with—when your roommate is a distracted ambidextrous genius with a tendency to switch hands, you learn to keep your own coffee mug out of his reach.

Today, Zo was conducting his own experiment on Leo’s ability to concentrate. He put identical mugs on each side of Leo, one of what even Nico (so polite, that boy!) called “foul sludge” and the other an oversweetened mess of room temperature leftovers from last night’s pot.

“Five minutes.” This was Zo’s opening bid in the familiar game of Betting On Everything. “He’s going to finish that paragraph he’s writing and notice he’s got two different coffees. And to make it a parlay—he’s going to prefer mine.” He looked over at Vanessa and Nico. “Who’s in?”

Nico snorted skeptically. “Nobody ever likes your coffee, Zo. It is literally undrinkable. You have to chew it fifty times before you can even swallow it. I’m in, and I’m saying 20 minutes. He’s going to quit writing and have to draw something, and he’s not going to come up for air until he realizes all his fingers are dirty and he can’t blend without smearing.”

He reached across the table to add a sixth spoonful of sugar to his own mug. “We should have a house rule that Zo is not allowed to touch the coffee maker—he can get one of his own if he really wants to make this stuff for himself. Subjecting us to it is cruel—especially in the morning.”

Vanessa was silent, considering her bet. She gathered her curls in one hand and twisted them up behind her head, securing them in a loose knot with a pencil from the collection Leo had strewn around his scribbling. Even Zo stopped to watch her, her pale skin and lush curls glowing in the winter light eking through the windows. He loved her like a sister, but her beauty was still a surprise he relished. Perhaps that made him an artist as well? He couldn’t capture her beauty on paper or with paints, but he could recognize it, see it, honor it.

Pity that Leo hardly ever looked at her. Pity for Leo, that is—how could he be called an artist when he was so blind to the daily beauty he was privileged to live with? Really, Zo should find a way to afford a decent camera, because if he couldn’t create Vanessa’s essence with art, he could at least document it.

Make no mistake, he’d happily sleep with her if she showed even the slightest interest, but she seemed to treasure their platonic relationship. And the world was full of people who were eager to sleep with Zo, he didn’t need to disrupt his domestic bliss by trying to change their dynamics.

And he didn’t mind having Julian around to lose at poker.

“I’m playing a wild card,” Vanessa said. This was their term for picking a completely different option—she could still be part of the bet, but her terms were going to be different. “He’s going to get interrupted and he’s going to leave without noticing he’s even been drinking coffee.” Vanessa’s smile was bright and sly at the same time, her eyes twinkled, and Nico could understand why Leo had scooped her up and brought her home. Even if he hardly seemed to notice her at all any more, which was the part that Nico could _not_  understand.

Zo opened his mouth to speak, but Vanessa raised a finger and silenced him. Her attitude of expectation affected the rest of them, and they sat in uneasy silence. When the doorbell rang, she lowered her finger, put her mouth to Leo’s ear and whispered, “It’s Riario.”

Leo jumped up, scattering his pencils further. He shut the notebook and shoved it into his messenger bag and left without a word. 

Zo sat back in his chair. “Well, fuck me.”

Nico looked confused. “Wait, that guy who was here for poker? Leo is seeing him again already?”

Zo looked admiringly at Vanessa. “How the fuck did you know that? Leo’s had plenty of one night poker stands. How did you know Riario wasn’t just one of those?” He sat with his arms crossed over his chest, slumped in his chair, deep in thought. “Well, if that bastard already has that sort of power over our Leo, we need to know more about him. And that. . .” he smiled broadly. Zo was really quite lovely when he smiled. “That sounds like a job for me.”

*****

 

“Nothing?” It’s not that Leo had been expecting anything in particular, but he hadn’t expected this. 

“Nothing. Not a thing.” Zo was sitting in his “storyteller’s pose,” on the arm of the overstuffed chair, one foot up on the seat, his arm draped along the back of the chair, waving a bottle of Stella Artois. He had a story to tell, and he was going to make the most theatrical job of it he knew how.

Vanessa came out of the kitchen to join them, bringing her signature caprese salad, a loaf of warm bread and the balsamic vinegar. She set out a shallow dipping bowl, and a beer for herself as well. “Really? Nothing at all? That _is_ interesting.”

Nico looked around, his eyes wide, intent on understanding the conversation without actually asking any questions. He could already tell this was a conversation where he might learn more if he stayed in the background and listened carefully. Zo would explain anything he didn’t understand later.

“I know. Suggestive, even.” Zo grinned, a quicksilver smile that lit up his face. Really, Vanessa thought, he was the most irrepressibly happy person she had ever known. He’s telling a story about his failure to learn anything about Riario, about his own failure, and he is enjoying the hell out of it. She knew him too well now, loved him like a brother, she was never going to fall for him. Not now. But if she had met him before she met Leo? He would have been a very good boyfriend. She mentally filed that insight away, in case she met someone worthy of him.

Zo swigged from the bottle and licked his lips. “Really, I couldn’t believe it. I worked all my contacts, went through the whole network, and—nothing. Not a thing. Not a single sorority girl--or even a fraternity boy. No idolizing undergraduates he is instructing in his classes, no drunken hook-ups at grad student parties, no paid escorts. Not a single report of early morning taxis or walks of shame.”

Nico looked confused, his brow furrowed over his clear blue eyes.

“So, maybe he’s just too busy to date.”

A smile darted around the room among the three older students, and Nico felt unreasonably defensive. “Look, college is hard! Dating is hard! Maybe he’s just concentrating.”

Zo reached over and gently punched him on the arm. The boy couldn’t help it; experience would come. “Leo, were we ever this young?”

Leo laughed, a happy full-throated sound. “I might have been, but I doubt you ever were, Zo. I think you were born corrupt." 

Zo couldn’t resist—he never did—turning the conversation as lewd as possible. “Indeed I was. I was born into my man’s estate already fully erect. I made my mother faint the first time I suckled at her breast. My early sexual mastery has allowed me to refine my techniques to a degree unrealized by lesser men. Legions of women have experienced their ultimate pleasure with me and have written me into their wills out of gratitude. More than a few men, too, come to that.” 

Vanessa tore a morsel of bread and threw it at him. “You are a foul mouthed, irredeemable liar and a braggart to boot!” 

Zo retrieved the bread from his shoulder, tossed it in his mouth and began chewing suggestively, leering broadly at Vanessa. “You’re just realizing you have been cheated out of your chance with me. Never mind about Julian—let me give you a demonstration.”

Vanessa laughed at the preternaturally animated eyebrows he was waggling in her direction. “You talk a good game, Zo, but I know better. I have actually met you. And I know quite a few of your exes.” 

Zo smiled more widely. “Ah, they find that words fail to properly express their ecstasy. I am just that amazing. So, Vanessa of the alabaster breasts, if you ever find Julian unsatisfactory, you know where to come to be properly appreciated. I guarantee you will forget _all_ your former lovers.” Then, with a sly glance at Leo; “Present company included.”

An even bigger chunk of bread went whizzing toward his head; this time it was Leo who threw it. Zo laughed, his head back and his teeth blazing white. Leo loved the way Zo laughed, loved looking around the table at his friends sharing food and ragging each other. This family of choice, the family he had made with his friends, filled the absence he felt about his family of origin. He found himself grinning broadly, matching Zo’s expression and feeling deeply contented. 

However, the topic was still Riario, and Leo wanted to know anything he could about the man who was currently occupying enormous amounts of his mental band width. “Seriously, though, you couldn’t find out anything about him?”

“I swear, the man might actually be a monk. There is absolutely not even whisper about his activities, or his proclivities. He might as well be cloistered.” Zo dropped his voice, inviting intimacies. “Did he seem, well, _desperate_ to you? Out of practice? Like he had a lifetime's worth of sexual frustration to discharge? Care to fill us in?”

Leo simply smiled and shook his head. “Not sharing, Zo.”

Immediately, Zo assumed his puppy dog look, eyes wide and injured, his shoulders slumped in an attitude of dejection. “After all this effort, you would deny me? Sure, don't share your dark, handsome and mysterious boyfriend. I’ll just keep anything I learn about him to myself. If you want to hear any of it, you’ll have to pay me in kind.”

At this, Leo stood up and crossed the room in long, swift strides. With both hands, he grabbed Zo’s face and bent over it. Zo’s eyes widened and then he closed them as Leo’s mouth met his. The kiss was long and soft, Leo alternately capturing and then releasing the lips under his own. Zo felt his mouth become slightly slack as his lower lip was pulled into Leo’s mouth and gently sucked. Without ever losing contact, Leo tickled and teased, bruised and blessed his mouth and the kiss went on and on. 

Nico looked away, embarrassed to be caught watching something that felt so private. Vanessa watched closely for any sign that either of them was protesting, that neither of them was taking advantage of the other. If asked, she wouldn’t be able to say which of them she was worried about, or even if she should worry at all.

Leo’s hands drifted down from Zo’s face, to slip through his messy curls, and then to his shoulders. He spread the collar of Zo’s patterned shirt wide, exposing even more of the man’s chest than was usually on display. He continued to lean into the kiss, and Zo collapsed from his perch on the chair, falling into the seat with his legs over one arm and his head propped against the other. Trapped under Leo’s body, Zo went still as Leo’s hands stroked the mat of curly chest hair. The kiss went on, and on, until—

“OW! Fuck you, Leo!” Leo stood up quickly, as Zo grabbed at his own chest. “That fucking _hurt!_ ” He ran his hands under his shirt, across a tiny patch of reddened skin. 

Leo examined the small black hairs he held pinched between his fingers. “You asked for payment in kind, Zo. You didn’t specify that you had to like it.” He opened his fingers, let the tiny curls fall.

“I didn’t say I didn’t like it; I said it hurt.” Zo pulled his shirt fractionally more closed but remained tipped in the chair. “And when I said ‘in kind’ I meant information. Did you learn that from your boyfriend? Is that how you two are?”

Vanessa was still watching closely, but Zo didn’t seem upset so much as he seemed curious. As though he was mining what just happened for clue to Leo’s new relationship. Vanessa had no idea if Leo and Zo had been lovers—they hadn’t acted like it as long as she had known them, but they had been friends and roommates for years before she entered their lives. There was a long history she did not understand. 

Zo made a tiny adjustment, remaining sprawled across the chair sideways, but managing to look even more louche, as though he had been ravished and left exhausted. He even managed a slight pout as he murmured “The least you could do is kiss it and make it better.”

Leo managed not to laugh out loud, but arranged his face in a matching moue of seduction. Really, sometimes it was hard to tell if these two were serious or not. “Information first, Zo. We can negotiate the payment when you find something.” He turned a challenging gaze on his friend. “I pay extra when it’s especially. . . _interesting._ ”

Leo’s face was constitutionally incapable of looking serious, Vanessa decided. There was some irrepressible mischievousness, something elfin, as though he was playing a prank on Life, and that came with an extremely long set up. It was part of what had attracted her the first time she met him; that sense of his playing on a cosmic scale, forcing God to take notice while refusing to take Him seriously. It was a breath of fresh air, compared to her own oppressively religious family, but was sometimes confusing. She couldn’t always tell if Leo was being sincere or not, and she knew that in Zo’s position, she would have felt entirely spun around. 

But Zo, being Zo, seemed to take the whole thing in stride, just another experience in Life’s rich promenade. He rolled himself to the floor, then picked himself up and winked. “I accept your challenge, Mage, and will quest forthwith.” He brushed down his pants legs. “Be warned, I drive a hard bargain.” 

And there he was, waggling his eyebrows again.

Leo smiled. “You degenerate pansexual.”

“You useless bisexual wanker.” 

Vanessa sighed. At least things were normal.


	4. What Goes On Behind These Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo and Riario escalate their physical relationship, and Zo starts to worry.

Riario fit the key into the lock of his office, a long and obviously institutional key with a deeply incised warning on the bow: “DO NOT COPY.” He’d had this office for the duration of his Harvard fellowship, and considered it the closest thing he had to a home. All his books were here, which were his most precious possesions, as well as a few items he had picked up on his research trips to Italy. There was, of course, a framed print of Dante Aligheri, recognizable in his red cap and gown, crowned with laurel leaves. Today’s plan was to finish marking the last few student papers before his official office hours began at 11:15. He pulled the key from the lock and reached for the light switch, when hands grabbed his shoulders and spun him around.

A warm body pushed him up against the now closed door, as a pair of lips pressed against his neck. A sweet, smoky smell filled his nostrils and a knee prised his legs slightly apart and kisses bit down toward his chest.

Leo.

Of course it was Leo, but he hadn’t expected him. The assault on his senses continued, the office dimly lit by morning sunlight filtering through the venetian blinds. A pair of slim and powerful hips moved against his own, pubic bone and erection pressed against him through their clothing. Leo’s mouth slid up the column of his throat to his ear, where a pointed tongue darted in and out, and then hot, husky breath whispered “Good morning, instructor.”

A metallic rattle Riario vaguely realized was the sound of his keys, as they dropped to the floor and his bag slipped from his other hand. He could feel his own erection begin to rise as his usually precise mind battled to make sense of the situation through the fog of sensation. Why was Leo here? _How_ was he here? What if someone. . .but fingers were tracing the cords of his neck as Leo’s teeth teased his lower lip, and Riario found he was hungry for Leo in his mouth and beneath his hands.

Still flattened against the door, Riario opened his mouth and found Leo’s lower lip, full and soft, against his teeth. He pulled it into his mouth, scraping and sucking the velvet softness. Leo gave a quiet groan, and Riario grabbed the younger man’s hips, pulling him closer with the bruising strength of his long fingers.

They were well matched, physically, of similar height and build, so that neither one naturally dominated the other. Leo had a slight advantage in taking Riario by surprise, but Riario knew the layout of the office better. He pulled out of a kiss, and moved to bite delicately at the lobe of Leo’s ear and whisper. “The sofa. Follow me.”

A soft moan of assent, and Leo shifted his weight. No longer pinned against his own door, Riario pivoted the pair of them without breaking contact. His hands dug into Leo’s hips and steered him to the battered leather sofa, legacy furniture that belonged to the room.

The office was small, but the piles of paper and books effectively created a labyrinth, so Leo allowed Riario to lead him across the shabby carpet. He soon found himself on his back, beneath the dusty window, Riario levered on his elbows and their hips circling, grinding. Leo grinned into the kisses, his hands finding the clasp of Riario’s belt and opening it. Riario rolled to his side and mimicked the gesture.

They never stopped kissing, even as each of them slipped his hands beneath the other’s waistband, cradling and clutching at the other. Later, still technically fully clothed, but clearly disheveled, Leo pushed aside Riario’s silky bangs and smiled into his eyes.

“How did. . .” Riario stopped his own words, interspersing them with continued kisses. “How did you get in?”

Leo laughed, playing his tongue across Riario’s white and even teeth. “I have a key—a master key. Works on all the office locks on campus.” He pushed his hands through the black locks, enjoying the feel of them pooling through his fingers, inhaling the scent of the warm body in his arms. So he didn’t immediately notice that Riario had stopped returning his kisses.

“Not sure how I feel about that.”

Riario sat up, swung his feet to the ground and stood up, rehitching his pants and swiftly sweeping his bangs back into place. It was curt, but Leo declined to be dismissed.

“I wanted to surprise you. You seemed to enjoy it.”

With his clothing reassembled, Riario strode to the doorway and turned on the overhead fluorescent light. The room winked into brilliance, and Leo had to squint as his eyes readjusted. “Yes. Well.” He retrieved the messenger bag, and began to pull out the stacks of essays he had meant to be grading.

Leo let the silence between them linger, and he found himself thinking about a problem he was having with a computer program he was needed for a remote controlled socket wrench. Ideally, if he could get the program to work with a standard sized tool, then the same instructions could be imported to the miniaturized tools that would allow him to repair his laptop without removing all the components. . . .

“Wait, what?” Leo had to shake his head to clear it of images of nanobots; Riario had finally spoken again.

“I said, why did you come here? Was it just to assault me in my office, or was there some other reason?” The voice was low and controlled, a soft menace delivered with just a hint of rasp. Leo understood that Riario was trying to disassociate himself, but that rasp—that was the vulnerable underbelly, and he was certainly not going leave that unexploited. Maybe Riario was uncomfortable, and to be fair, Leo understood that. But he _had_ enjoyed it, and if this was a faux pas, it was not enough to derail the potential for future encounters.

So he smiled, lazy and satiated, and slowly levered himself to a sitting position. He reached up and ruffled his own hair, and saw how Riario’s black eyes followed his movements. _Oh yes,_ he thought. _I know desire when I see it_.

“Well, I did have an invitation to deliver.” He stood up to rebutton his jeans, and watched as Riario swallowed. Slowly, he advanced to where Riario sat behind the desk. He half sat on the edge, drawing Riario’s gaze up to his face. “Vanessa is making one of her epic dinners tonight. She asked me to invite you.” He leaned over, his face inches away, his lips all but touching Riario’s. “I would like it very much if you would come. Tonight.”

The double entendre was hardly sophisticated, but it made Riario’s breath hitch in his throat. What _was_ it about this boy? Riario closed his eyes, already swimming in desire again with Leo’s warm breath against his cheek, a throaty chuckle rumbling in his ear. He was being invited in. He was half lost already in a battle he was not going to win against himself. He wanted this man again, wanted to taste that mouth, dig his fingers into his hips. He wanted more than adolescent fumblings on a narrow couch. He wanted Leo, all of him, spread out and submissive under his touch, his own personal Vitruvian lover.

“Say yes.” Leo whispered, and pressed closer. Riario felt the warmth, felt his own need. This wasn’t like him, he didn’t lose himself like this. He was disoriented, unbalanced, but he knew the direction his body was leading him, and he followed the only direction he could see.

“I will. I will come.”

Leo kissed him then. A leisurely, soft kiss of certainty, of promise of more. Unconsciously, Riario dug his fingers into the muscles of Leo’s upper arms, clinging to the kiss. “You have to go,” he stuttered, as he pressed another kiss to those lips. Of course Leo had to go, there were likely students arriving for office hours, and had he even locked the door? He could drown in those kisses, his body heating up again, even as he tried to send him away. Leo scraped his teeth across the tender underside of his lower lip, and Riario was aware of his ache to take his own turn, to crush this body against a wall, to bend it over the desk, to press it into a mattress. “You have to go.”

A tentative knock on the door caused them both to jump. “Um, Professor Riario?”

Leo grinned. His mouth looked a little bruised, but on the whole, he looked perfectly normal, which was to say as disheveled as he usually looked. He did not look as entirely wrecked as Riario felt. “Seven o’clock. There will be a couple of people you know. We can talk about the key tonight. If we must. Unless--” With a cheeky grin, he left the vague promise hovering in the air, as he hopped off the desk and slid out the door.

*****

It was exactly 7 p.m. as Riario closed the car door with the soft “thud” that was the hallmark of a German engineered car; the door was precisely balanced, the frame was sufficiently insulated, so the sound was both reassuringly solid and discretely muffled. Once again, he was walking up to Leo’s house with a bottle in hand. This time it was a full bodied Tuscan red wine.

Nico answered the door, his blond curls like a halo around his young face, backlit and glowing. “Um, hi! Hi. Um.” There was a lengthy silence, and Riario simply waited. “Leo is in the middle of something, but he usually comes out when there’s food.” The words came out in a rush, and then Nico stood on one foot for a moment, blocking the doorway, before recalling his manners. “Come in. If you want.”

Silently, Riario handed the bottle to Nico and knocked the snow off his boots before stepping over the doorway. Once inside, he opened the hall closet and hung up his long greatcoat and thick wool muffler. The same pile of coats and scarves were heaped on the floor of the closet. The disarray evoked a nearly physical need to organize the mess, but he resolutely closed the door and advanced into the house.

The dining room table was already set for six. The living room was dark, but for a few candles casting small pools of warm light, that could not compete with the sounds and light spilling from the kitchen. He cautiously stepped to the doorway and surveyed the activity.

It was a small kitchen, made smaller by all extra bodies in the space. Both Julian and Zo were taking up enormous amounts of room “assisting” Vanessa with the cooking. As long as “assisting” meant “repeatedly taking the cooking wine away and filling their own glasses with it.”

As Riario entered, Vanessa was literally slapping Zo’s wrist with one hand as she wrested away a bottle of Chianti with the other. “Look, you flaccid bull’s pizzle, I need that wine for the beef. You steal that one more time and it’s bed without supper for you!”

Julian laughed, and with a wink at Zo, he slid behind Vanessa, wrapping his arms around her waist and tucking kisses beneath her jaw. To Riario’s surprise, she screeched, and struggled in his grasp. “The same goes for you, Mr. Medford! Bed without supper. _And_ without _me_.”

Simply by standing in the dining room, Riario could watch this all as if it were on a stage. His dark eyes large in the shadows, he noticed every detail. He saw how Julian took every opportunity to touch Vanessa, how his hands reached for her waist, her hips, her ass. Vanessa, on the other hand, deftly evaded him with a skill that spoke of years of practice. She had the sinuous grace that spoke of long hours as a beautiful woman working for tips, who did not wish to overtly reject a drunk patron. Yet, even as she shimmered out of Julian’s reach, her laughing face said that she enjoyed the attention, and would welcome the interruption, but for the risk that dinner would burn.

More unusual was the obvious rapport between Julian and Zoroaster, which was not the sort of thing he expected to see from the Brahmin princeling. Medfords weren’t known for socializing so far outside their upper class circles. As he watched, he revised his initial opinions: Zo had an extraordinary chameleon-like ability to make himself agreeable, and Julian was less of a snob than the rest of his family.

At that moment, Julian manuevered himself behind Vanessa and caged her with his arms on the counter. He pressed his hips into her and whispered something directly into her ear. The words were too quiet for Riario to hear, but the rasping tone was undoubtedly explicit. Vanessa rolled her eyes, but Riario detected her answering shift back into Julian.

“Yes I do, and we have a guest coming tonight and you _will behave!”_ Her last words turned into a shriek, as Julian swung her off the floor and carried her over to Zo, who deftly plucked the bottle of wine out of her hands.

“Fair play, Vanessa. If we _both_ have to go to bed without you, the least you can do is let us have the wine instead.” Zo was grinning at her, as Julian kept her feet off the ground. Ostentatiously, Zo poured the last of the wine into his glass.

Nico sat on a stool in the far corner of the kitchen, his own eyes wide but his body unnaturally still so as not to call attention to himself. Riario recognized that Nico was just as much an audience as he himself was. Before he could draw any more specific conclusions, he felt an arm snake around his own waist and Leo’s mouth slid onto his neck. “I’m so glad you came,” Leo breathed, as he ran his free hand just to one side of Riario’s hip, brushing the placket of his dress pants. “Dinner won’t be ready for a while yet. Come back to my room with me.”

*****

A week later, after another dinner, Riario moved quietly around Leo’s bedroom, his long, elegant fingers occasionally lingering on some object. Leo was working on something, deftly drafting something into a notebook, apparently oblivious that Riario was there. It might have felt rude, but Riario rather envied Leo’s ability to move so rapidly between ideas and activities. He himself tended to focus with laser-like intensity on one thing at a time, and he greatly disliked being forced to multi-task.

So he was content to wait for Leo to notice him.

Among the items scattered about the room was what Riario could only identify as “drug paraphernalia.” He’d never partaken himself; he preferred to cultivate complete control of his senses. Drugs had never offered the slightest appeal. But Leo had obviously engaged in many different types, if the objects spoke truly.

“Why do you do it, Leo?”

Fingers darting, lips moving, it took several seconds for Leo to respond to the question. “Do what?”

“Drugs. Why would you risk damaging a brain like yours with narcotics?” Riario moved to sit on the bed, looking into Leo’s distracted eyes. “I am genuinely curious.”

Leo wasn’t ready to give up the idea he was chasing, but he could give some kind of an answer. “It calms me. It gets too distracting, all those ideas, just flying through my head all the time. The drugs help me to stop thinking.” He scratched out a cryptic symbol. “I don’t really do it anymore.”

That was a surprise. True, the smoky sweetness of marijuana didn’t cling in his clothing as it once had. Riario had noticed that, but he’d assumed that only meant that Leo had switched to some other form of consumption. He’d not seen any evidence of withdrawal. Perhaps he had overestimated Leo’s actual use? To be fair, he’d never actually seen Leo indulging. Of course, he hadn’t seen Leo do many things. Their relationship was mostly contained within the walls of Leo’s bedroom.

“What happened?”

Leo stood up suddenly, his focus gone, his inspiration fled. The notebook he had been writing in spilled to the floor, and he flung his pencil down. It rolled to the edge of the desk and dropped as well. In two steps he crossed the room to stand in front of Riario. He put his hands on either side of that chiseled face and tilted it up. “You did.”

As the words left his mouth, Leo was struck by their accuracy. It was true, in a very literal way, that Riario was now his drug of choice. Casting his mind back, it seemed that he had stopped all his drugging—marijuana, opium, the amusing grab bag of mixed prescripton pills and club drugs—because it was Riario who filled that need.

Somehow, Riario had slowed the cascade of thoughts that constantly sleeted through his brain. For so long, Leo had lived amid scintillating ideas that led him to leap and clutch at all of them, unable to explore one fully before another one danced before his eyes, alluring and irresistible. It was beautiful, yes, like living in a meteor shower, but it was also exhausting. It was nearly impossible to sleep for the questions and ideas that fizzed and sparked in his brain, and he used to be all but insomniac, sleeping less than three hours a night, before he found marijuana. Which took the edge off, for him, and allowed him to ignore the brightly alluring distractions of his own brain, at least as long as he was engaged in some project. But only opium had given him the ability to sleep.

Now, the hookah sat unused in the corner of his room. It had been weeks since he’d brought it out—the same weeks since he started spending his energy on fucking Riario. He hadn’t actually recognized it, not consciously, but it was true. He didn’t use drugs anymore now, and Riario was the reason.

All these thoughts tumbled through his mind as he looked down into the pale face of his lover. Riario should have looked submissive, his face turned up, Leo’s hands holding his face. Yet there was always a challenge in his eyes. No matter what they did, Riario was always at least Leo’s equal. Even when Leo topped him, Riario was driving the relationship, was never dominated.

Right now, those black eyes snapped at him, the black fringe of his tousled hair looking so damn _touchable_ , the black line of his beard in stark contrast to the supple tenderness of his lips. The man was _carved_ , like marble, high cheekbones cresting the deep hollows of his cheeks, which ended at his lips, making them appear to pout. Making them even more desirably kissable. Without conscious thought, Leo traced Riario’s face with his thumbs, still staring into the black wells of his eyes.

 

Despite the masculine beauty—and he was beautiful, Leo often ached to touch and to draw him at the same moment—he was addicted to those eyes. The intensity of Riario’s gaze was such that Leo felt pinned underneath it, like a butterfly mounted on a canvas board, held in place by the stiletto of his regard.

It was calming, better than drugs, better even than the sex, the way he felt stilled by being looked at, being _seen_. He envied Riario that ability to focus, and he reveled in being the subject of his concentration. So often, Leo felt frivolous, flighty, unable to limit his attention to what was urgent. Riario had the opposite talent; at least, when he looked at Leo, the world narrowed down to just the two of them and Leo’s brain went blessedly silent. Time seemed to stop. It had stopped.

This was the moment Riario had learned to wait for: the moment when Leo stopped being infinitely distracted. The signs were unmistakeable; his breathing slowed, his eyes stopped darting, his muscles stopped their manic twitching. He _settled_ , even his posture altered subtly, as the nervous energy that usually propelled him dissipated. This was when Riario could choose his next move and it would be welcomed.

This time, rather than stand up himself, he reached up and bunched his hands in Leo’s shirt, pulling him down into the kiss. It had the advantage of taking Leo off-balance, which made it easier to control him. Interestingly, it seemed Leo had to use the fulcrum of their mouths to keep his balance, adding an exquisite extra force to their kiss.

Slowly, Riario increased the pressure of his arms, forcing Leo to lean deeper and deeper toward him, until with a practiced twist, Leo was on his back across the bed and Riario was laid out above him. Under the probing of his tongue, Leo opened his mouth with a sigh, accepting and answering the increasingly intimate kiss. Riario felt the body underneath him go slack with desire, and he gave a throaty chuckle that hummed across Leo’s mouth.

Leo gave a small gasp, and his hands scrabbled at Riario’s waist, pulling the shirt free of his tailored trousers, reaching for the touch of skin. Instead, Riario grasped Leo’s hands and crossed them onto the mattress above his head.

“Not yet. If I have to kiss you into submission I will, just to be sure I have your complete attention.” He was willing to admit to himself that he enjoyed this foreplay: Leo, slack and pliable beneath him, the warmth of his body rising through his clothes as Riario attacked his mouth, alternately crushing the velvet lips and then sucking their plumpness into his own. Every so often, Riario would pull his head back, interrupting the rhythm, and dance his pointed tongue across Leo’s lips, lingering in the divot at the corner of his mouth. Leo’s head came up off the bed, reaching for more solid contact, as Riario teased with feathery touches.

When he finally dropped his hands to remove Leo’s shirt, the other tore at his clothes, desperate for the feel of skin on skin. Riario allowed this much, but no more, as he relished setting a deliberate pace, so at odds with the mad dash to orgasm that Leo instigated. Instead, Riario focused on one small area at time: lips, nipples, the tender flesh beneath the navel, forcing all Leo’s sensations into tight focus before watching the man fly apart entirely at the end.

Afterward, they tucked around each other, naked in the tangled sheets. One head on the other’s arm, a wrist draped over a waist, knees tangled together. Leo slept so deeply that he didn’t stir when Riario slipped away in the early morning hours. He would have preferred to stay, to watch his artista wake, but duty called. Failing to answer would jeopardize what he had managed to create for himself here.

*****

It was only a couple of weeks of this before Zo began to wonder—deeply wonder, more than just the idle speculation that it had been to this point—who was Riario? You could learn a lot about a man by learning about his past relationships: who he slept with, how he broke up with them. Before, when he had asked around, he hadn’t turned up anything, but that hadn’t bothered him. After all, he wasn’t necessarily important. Leo had brought other men to a poker night, and they’d never returned. Riario could have been the same.

Instead, it seemed that he had some kind of hold over Leo, and he wasn’t going anywhere. Zo considered it. . .prudent. . .to know more about the man. So he went back to the people and places that usually served him well. And this time—there was still nothing.

He went back again, pushed harder, demanded his usual sources give him their sources. He traded rumor for information, he drank dozens of beers in dozens of different bars, he flirted his way into the university’s records database, and he was stopped dead at every turn. Girolamo Riario existed, and that was about all he could prove. This was very disturbing; it meant that somebody was deliberately hiding facts, and Zo could only think that meant those facts were dangerous.

However, he could not get Leo to take this seriously. He found his friend in the dining room, sketching as usual, something that could either have been the layout of a silicon chip, or the information flow of a multinational corporation. Or possibly abstract art. Once Leo had a pencil in hand, it was hard to get him to pay attention to anything else. Zo considered leaving this for later, but his danger senses were tingling, so it was worth making the heroic attempt.

“Hey, Leo. Leo—you bastard son of a pustule ridden whoremaster.”

Leo didn’t look up, didn’t even blink. “My father is worse than that, Zo. It’s not an insult if it’s true, you indiscriminate cocktease.”

Zo pulled out a chair and straddled it backwards. “Leo, you arrogant brain wanker, I have something important to tell you and I need you to listen.”

Leo might have been doing complex mental mathematics, the way he looked toward nothing, his fingers fluttering, his lips moving soundlessly for several seconds. Then he ducked his head, scratched out some refinements on the drawing, and slammed his hand down onto the page. It looked like he had accomplished something, and in that case, he was more easily interrupted, although Zo wasn’t sure Leo had even realized he was still there.

“Hey, bull’s pizzle! Look at me!”

It was important to grab Leo’s attention before his brain latched onto the next thought. Timing was crucial, but unpredictable. “It’s about your new boyfriend.”

The term “boyfriend” didn’t snap his attention, so Zo tried again. “It’s about Riario.”

That did it. Leo turned vacant eyes to Zo, who watched them slowly come into focus and to recognize him. “That’s right. It’s me, general dogsbody Zoroaster, and I need to talk to you about Riario.”

That did it. Leo’s attention was like a fine rain—there was no direct source, and sometimes you scarcely noticed it, but eventually you got wet. The trick was not to let the storm settle elsewhere.

Okay. To the point then. “You remember how I looked him up, when you first got interested in him. I didn’t find anything.” Leo nodded. “I didn’t think much about it at the time, because—well, it was a casual hunt, and I wasn’t too concerned that nothing floated up. But I’ve been pushing a whole lot more, and there’s still nothing I can find.”

Leo failed to look concerned. “Zo, the guy’s very private. Buttoned down, even. So what?” He cracked his trademark grin, a careless smile that told Zo that he didn’t think there was any danger. Anywhere. “So he’s discreet. I know you don’t understand what that means, but it’s not a crime.”

Leo was flirting with him, trying to tease him out of his somber mood. Which, admittedly, wasn’t that hard to do. Seriousness was not his usual idiom after all. So unconsciously, Zo found himself lightening his tone, re-assuming his usual jovial manner.

“No, I’m serious, there is nothing. No hints of any fucking all—the man is a fucking ghost, as far as I can tell. He’s so mysterious, I’m not even sure that ‘Riario’ is his real name.”

]

Leo just smiled. “Not every body kisses and tells, Zo.”

“Not even if they all signed fucking non-disclosure agreements would everything be this air-tight: _somebody_ would talk.” Zo paced nervously around the room. “No women, no men, no indistinguishable forms seen entering or exiting the premises, alone or in company of that fucking bastard Riario.”

“Perhaps he simply has himself in control.” Leo was back to sketching again, his attention divided. Damn it.

“Oh right, Leo. He’s a fucking virgin. Have you looked at that man? There is no way he’s reached his thirties without somebody having a taste of that.” Then lower, because he wasn’t certain he really wanted Leo to hear him say this: “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He’s not new at this.”

Leo’s fingers danced across the page of this sketchbook, blending the charcoal to create shadows and highlights, creating dimensionality out of nothing. “Zo. He’s only been here a year, year and a half. Maybe all his previous relationships happened wherever he was before he came here. Contrary to local custom and belief, Boston does not have the only fuckable people on the planet.”

“Perhaps he simply has them _killed_ ,” Zo threw back. “I cannot believe it, but _no one_ is talking. About anything.”

But Leo was lost, absorbed in whatever effects he was creating on paper. Zo stood up, discouraged but also determined to crack this puzzle. As he left, he threw out one last comment. “At least ask him.”

Who knew? Perhaps Leo’s subconscious would act on it. 


	5. Bowling Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vanessa hijacks poker night; Leo conducts a new experiment. Riario mostly suffers.

 

Riario pulled up to the house for the usual Thursday night poker game. He had missed it the last two weeks, due to emergency summons from his father. It did not do to refuse his father’s command appearances.

This time, he was bringing a case of beer; something better than the terrible stuff that Zo usually drank. Julian’s flashy yellow sports car was already parked in the driveway. Good. That improved the odds that either the game would end early, or else it would be delayed, while Julian did his best to drag Vanessa back into her bedroom. Which meant that Riario would not have to wait the entire evening to get his hands on Leo.

That was not a metaphor either; he could literally feel how his hands felt empty, how he longed to fill his palms by grabbing fistfuls of the man’s gorgeous, rounded ass. How he wanted to pull him tight, to bite down that chest, to push himself against Leo’s willing body. It had been weeks since they had been alone together, and Riario was using a great deal of self control to even contemplate waiting through a typical evening of cards and razzing before he could get Leo to himself, to get Leo under his command.

Once inside, however, it was immediately clear that things were going to be different. Because the dining room table was mysteriously missing.

“ _Somebody_ must have spilled some acid or something on it,” Vanessa explained, while throwing serious side eye at Leo. And while Leo didn’t remember doing anything like that, he also couldn’t confidently swear he _hadn’t_. “It’s off being refinished.”

“But how are we going to play poker without a table?” Not that Nico actually enjoyed playing poker, but he preferred having a routine.

Vanessa smiled. “Trust me. I have an alternative. Julian and I are going to take his car, and Riario can take the rest of you in his. Just follow us.”

Nico still protested. “But what are we. . . .”

Vanessa cut him off with her mysterious smile. “Trust me, Nico.”

Oddly, Zo didn’t object at all, either to the loss of a poker night, or to the mysterious nature of the new plan. It might have been because he had already broken open the case of beer Riario had brought and was well into his second bottle.

Riario looked over at Julian. “Do you know what is going on?”

“Nope!” His grin was cheery and unconcerned. “Tonight, I’ll do whatever Vanessa tells me to do.”

She looked over at him. “Because you have to—you have already lost that bet.”

Julian smiled broadly at Riario, as Vanessa hustled the group into their winter coats and out to the cars. There was no question of who was riding with Julian; his expensive car only had two seats. In Riario’s black sedan, Leo claimed shotgun, leaving Zo and Nico to climb in back with the rest of the case of beer between them.

Vanessa sank into the buttery leather seats, closed her eyes and tipped her head back. She preferred not to watch Julian’s driving; it reminded her too much of a video game. “So, what do you think of him?”

“Think of whom?” Part of the reason Julain loved this car was the way it responded to his handling. He enjoyed the work of shifting up and down the gears, hearing the roar and purr of the engine as he navigated to Vanessa’s directions, sliding between cars and through gaps that opened magically in front of him.

“Riario. Do you know anything about him? Is he good enough for our Leo?”

Julian did not answer immediately, concentrating on a particularly challenging merge. Once accomplished, he thought for a moment. “First of all, I don’t actually know Leo all that well. I mean, he’s your roommate, and I know _you_ all think he’s a genius and all, but I just don’t know him that way. I mean, I lose to him pretty often at poker, but that’s about it. And you should know,” he smiled at Vanessa, his lips curving into a saucy grin, “I lose at strip poker on purpose.”

Vanessa smiled back, because of course she knew that. “And I enjoy watching you lose. Oh, turn left up here.”

“So maybe Leo is a genius, maybe he’s just arrogant, maybe he’s the brightest mind on the planet, I don’t know. I don’t even know if he’s that good of a poker player, even. Just so you know—I don’t have any opinion on what would be a Good Boyfriend for Leo.”

Vanessa turned up the seat warmer and snuggled in. “Fair enough. I’ll rephrase the question, counselor. Do you know anything about Riario?”

“Other than what I’ve seen at your place? No, I don’t. He may have taken some classes at the law school, at least ones that are cross listed with the school of government. He wears a lot of black. That’s probably not what you are looking for.”

A sigh escaped Vanessa’s lips. “You don’t know anything about his politics? His family?” A thought occurred to her. “Does anybody in your family know about him?”

“I don’t know anything, and I don’t know what my family does or doesn’t know. I mean, it’s not like everybody in politics is all in the same club so that they secretly knows each other.” He downshifted in order to get some traction on a particularly curving road. “As far as I know, he’s just a guy doing a post-doc at a very good school. He’s probably who he says he is. Why shouldn’t he be? And where are we going anyway?”

When she was thinking hard, or worried, Vanessa tugged at her lower lip with her white, even teeth. Julian found her deeply kissable, and had to make a deliberate effort to concentrate on his driving instead. A quick glance at the rear view mirror showed Riario’s sober black sedan was only half a block behind them. Julian had to be impressed; he had accidentally-on-purpose lost other drivers who were following him. Riario must have some excellent driving skills.

“Just ahead, and then turn right.” Vanessa was quiet for a moment, and then the words came out in a rush. “Riario is different from anybody else Leo has brought around before, and I can’t quite explain what it is. I mean, it’s obvious the two of them are completely gone on each other, and he’s certainly smart enough for Leo. I can’t tell if it’s different because he’s bad for Leo, or because he could be The One.” She leaned forward and pointed to a low building with a garish neon sign over the parking lot. “Turn here. This is it.”

Julian took in the sign, and laughed. “So this is a test, is it? Do you make all your roommates’ dates prove themselves like this?” The neon sign animated, a bilious blue ball striking a pair of pins that went flying. “Bowling. I would not have guessed.” He parked, and leaned over to kiss those incredible lips. “Interested in double or nothing?”

The ride over in the black sedan was a bit more awkward. If it had been just the two of them, Riario driving and Leo in the passenger seat, it might have been pleasant. In the few times they had driven places together, Leo was busy with some project, humming and talking under his breath, his fingers dancing as he made mental calculations and drawings in the air. It was a sort of companionable silence. With both Nico and Zo in the back seat, however, Leo’s social disengagement left Riario in the awkward position of talking over his shoulder to two people he did not know at all well.

“So, anybody know any jokes?” Zo clapped his hands together, and looked around. Leo, off in his own zone, did not respond. Nico stayed quiet, his eyes huge and blue in the passing lights. “Did you hear the one about four guys in a car with nothing to say and no idea where they are going?”

Riario cleared his throat. “Is this something your friend does often?”

“What, enact a mass kidnapping? No, I have to say this is a first for me.”

“This isn’t a kidnapping!” Nico blurted from the corner where—as far as Riario could see in the rear view mirror—he’d wedged himself in a bid for invisibility. “How can you even say that about Vanessa?”

Even Zo looked surprised. Well, even a mouse will sometimes bare its teeth if it feels it is about to get crushed. “It was a joke, Nico! You can’t kidnap somebody who is voluntarily going with you! It’s like, the literal definition of kidnapping means it can’t be voluntary!”

Even Leo looked up at Nico’s outburst, his fingers stopped their weaving as he sat forward and stared into the back seat. Riario felt the dynamic in the car shift again. With Leo participating, he no longer felt like a cab driver awkwardly trying to engage with untalkative fares. Suddenly, sitting together in a dark car with a petulant teenager in the back seat, it felt weirdly like they were playing house: Mom and Dad in the front seat on a long family road trip. In a relationship founded on sexual voracity, this new dynamic felt oddly domestic.

Nico turned his head to look back out into the dark. “Vanessa is worth more than all of you. You shouldn’t make fun of her like that.” He crossed his arms over his chest and—there was no other word for it— _sulked_.

Leo opened his mouth, but Zo spoke even more quickly. “You are _absolutely right_ , Nico. Vanessa is the best of any of us. In fact,” and his quicksilver smile darted out, “when Leo finally sets the house on fire with one of his stupid experiments, she’s the only thing I’m going to save. The rest of you are on your own.” He reached over, and ruffled the shining blond curls. “She’s even more important than you are, you little fucker. Satisfied?”

Riario’s eyes snapped up at that, scanning the rear view mirror. Before he even realized what he was looking for, Leo grabbed his arm. “Turn right, turn right, _turn right_! They are right over there.”

Zo caught sight of the animated bowling ball and growled, “Oh, fuck me.”

At least, it was clean? Riario wasn’t sure what he expected inside a suburban bowling alley, but at least it was fundamentally sanitary. Some two dozen separate lanes stretched into the laser-lit darkness, and the crash of balls into pins was viscerally loud.

A pervasive scent of movie theater popcorn hovered over the room, and the “Snack Bar” looked depressingly small. On the other hand, there was a separate full bar, so at least the offerings wouldn’t be limited to low alcohol beer. Julian and Riario exchanged looks.

Vanessa waved them over to the shoe rental. “Tell the nice man your sizes, and I’ll have a reward for you.” With a look at Julian, she amended her statement. “I’ll have beer for you. _You,_ ” she smacked Julian lightly, “are already morally obligated to obey my every command for the duration of the night.”

Zo looked between the two of them. “Damn, I wish I had gotten in on that bet.”

Julian smirked at him. “You, my friend, are cordially not invited to this particular one.”

Vanessa disappeared briefly, but returned with two pitchers of dark beer and a stack of plastic cups. “I know the bartender,” she explained. “He’s promised we will have the kitchen send out something decent to eat as well.” She looked at Leo. “And nothing with eyes.”

“Fuck me, Vanessa, are you really going to make us do this?” Zo was looking down at the pair of two toned leather shoes in his hand. They looked enormous, and were a dingy brown that was either evidence of caked-in dirt and sweat, or the intentional choice of an obviously color blind shoemaker. “You do realize that no one with actual working eyes would have chosen those two colors. Not even individually.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust. “The mind that put them together—well, deranged is the only explanation.”

“Don’t be such a diva, Zo. We are all wearing them. Plus, there will be beer. Admit it. You would do just about anything for free beer.” Vanessa poured a full cup and handed it to him. Zo had to admit that it was better than the bat’s piss he bought for himself.

“Vanessa, my angel, if you are abusing your bartender network to procure a better quality of beer than is generally available, it would be rude of me to refuse to drink it.”

So he drained the cup and announced, “It’s drinkable. Aggressive notes of hops and chocolate; a beer that matches well with pizza and athletes’ foot fungus.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes. “Your noble sacrifice is duly noted and appropriately appreciated.” Because _of cours_ e Zo could be bribed with drinks; she had counted on that.

She was also confident that Nico would buy into the evening’s activities. Nico didn’t really like poker, and she was pretty sure he would be enthusiastic about an alternative. Julian would have to participate if she ordered him to; that bet he lost was paying off. Which left the two wild cards: Leo and Riario.

She had staged the evening to see Riario outside the house, doing something other than playing cards. She had no idea how he would react to the ridiculousness of a night spent bowling, which was rather the point of the exercise.

There was really no way to predict Leo’s reaction to anything. It turned out that he was beyond delighted and was very eager to participate.

“What do you mean, you’ve never bowled?” Zo couldn’t quite believe it; bowling seemed like such an ubiquitous pastime. “How is it that I never even knew that?”

“I had an eccentric upbringing, all right?” Zo watched as Leo stood on the highly polished deck, sliding his shoes against the flooring, calculating the fucking co-efficient of friction. His eyes were unfocused and his fingers were dancing: first in the air, then on the surface of the balls in the return. He looked at the score cards, projected on television screens above each lane, rapidly calculating the point system. His bright eyes landed on Nico, who had picked up a ball and was making practice approaches and swings, testing the weight, the balance, the spacing of the finger holes.

“It’s a great game!” pronounced Zo, who had already finished his second glass of beer. “It is one of only two American sports where you actually become a better player the more you drink.”

Leo turned his head to look at his friend, his eyes phasing into focus. “Only two? What is the other one?”

Zo lifted his cup in a mock toast. “Fucking softball, mate. Bowling and softball where the rules strongly recommend near constant inebriation.”

Vanessa set them up on two adjacent lanes, and paired them up: she and Julian were the first bowlers on each lane, followed by Nico and Zo, then Leo and Riario.

She bit her lip, and risked a glance at Riario. He had not put on the shoes, which were incongruous, given the fashionable black of the rest of his outfit. But he was there, one leg crossed over the other, sitting easily in the ridiculous molded plastic chairs. He didn’t look relaxed exactly, but he also didn’t look nervous, or even calculating. Back at the house, playing poker against Riario felt like playing against a computer. He always seemed to be analyzing the statistically likely outcomes of any particular play.

Here, he looked almost . . .indifferent? Not that he looked bored; this was a man whose face was always in motion, taking in details and information and processing it as close to instantaneously as mere human neurons were capable of. Here, he looked less animated, as though he had already calculated the exact chances of making a fool of himself, and had decided to simply accept defeat with as much grace as he could muster.

Leo, though. She had lain awake last night second guessing herself about her plan to force a change of scenery. She was not sure what Leo would think of it, but he genuinely appeared to be delighted, grilling Zo for the specifics of the game.

“So, I get what kind of multiplier for a strike?” He did a few calculations in his head, fingers waving. “Does the skill lie in the release of the ball?”

Nico demonstrated a three-step approach, and then a five step one. The fine details—like “don’t loft the ball, or don’t cross the foul line” were simply skimmed over. This first line was going to be interesting, a practice round as everybody got used to each other in a new place.

Leo was starting from farther behind than all the rest of them. Honestly, how did he manage to live this long with absolutely no experience of bowling? “And what are these grooves on either side?”

Zo was still explaining the rules. “Gutters. Your throw with too much of a hook, you end up in the gutter and miss the pins entirely.”

Leo peered down the lane in that focused way he sometimes had, that looked as if he were taking laser sightings and precise measurements. His fingers patted against his thigh, and then he looked across the row of lanes.

Even though it was a Thursday, and thus technically a “school night,” there were quite a few families with elementary school aged children; the place was nearly full. Leo caught sight of the brightly colored obstacles filling some of the gutters and pointed.

 

“Wait! What are those?” The familiar signs of a new obsession were showing: his speech became more pressured, his eyes bright and larger than usual, his fingers tapping against his leg.

“Bumpers, Leo. They are cheats. Removes the possibility of gutter balls, increasing your score. They use them for kids. I guess it’s not fun if it’s too frustrating.”

Words tumbled out of Leo’s mouth like they were being shot out of a fire hose. “We need those too, Zo, because they increase the opportunities for bank shots, while maintaining the penalty for the worst throws, because as you can see, there is sufficient room for a ball to miss the pins entirely right there,” he pointed to the end of the lane. Honestly, the angle was impossible, and Zo had no idea what he was actually supposed to be looking at. This happened a lot with Leo. Instead of arguing, which never worked, Zo simply went to get bumpers installed.

Once installed, however, Leo sank deep into experimental mode, unwilling to sit out and take turns. Through the sheer force of his enthusiasm, he managed to take over one entire lane for his experiments. He started by lining up balls by weight and whispering to himself about the effect of the distance between the finger holes on the angular momentum. Vanessa rearranged the automatic scoring, filling Leo’s name down the entire side of the lane he was on, then looked at the rest of the group. Nico was already throwing some test balls down the companion lane. He had an undeniable flair for the sport; possibly because he was not so far removed from the peak age for bowling experience in 21st century America. Which was 12. She put his name down first.

Since she already had a side bet against Julian, she put their names next. Zo was intrigued.

“So you are actually planning to play? I assume there is a bet involved?” He darted a glance between Julian’s grin and Vanessa’s glare. “Ah ha, there is. And given Julian’s expression, I am going to deduce that it has to do with a, shall we say. . .bedroom activity?” Julian’s grin got wider. Vanessa’s glare got more intense.

“I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell you, Zo, as it is exactly none of your business.” She poured herself a beer, and swallowed. “At least not unless I am a great deal more drunk than I am now, you charlatan.”

Zo’s face lit up, and he looked around. “Anyone care to make a little wager on whether I can get the fair Vanessa drunk enough to cadge out her secret? Nico?” The boy shook his head vigorously, golden curls bouncing around his face. “No, I should have guessed. You never want to know the good stuff. Leo?” But Leo was deeply engaged in whatever mental calculations he was doing and did not even acknowledge his name being called.

Zo was starting to look disappointed. “Julian? Well, no, I guess that would be betting against your own interests wouldn’t it. Riario?”

Riario turned his intense gaze away from watching Leo; Zo felt pinned under his stare. “I believe attempting to engage me in one of your bets is a sign of desperation. I decline.”

Zo stepped back, and blew on his hands as if to warm them. “That is cold, dude. Cold.” He picked up the pitcher of beer, offered it to Vanessa. “I’m still curious, so we’ll see. Otherwise, I will take this opportunity to drink myself into a state of inebriation sufficient to allow me to forget that I am actually bowling.” So Vanessa put his name down on the score card as well.

Which left Riario.

She looked over at him, as he sat incongruously elegant in the garish room. Yet there was a new—messiness was it? Somehow he did not seem quite as exquisitely groomed as he had the first time she had seen him. Perhaps some of Leo was rubbing off onto him.

Because Leo was far from “well groomed.” The term “exquisitely tailored” would never be applied to him. He was too busy living in the chaos inside his own head to worry much about what was going on outside of it. She’d early on taken to frog marching him to the laundry room, to force him to change out of his clothes and run a load or two. Tonight, he was wearing a well worn pair of jeans slung low across his hip bones, a vee-necked tee shirt and a zippered hoodie. His hair was, as usual, standing up on the top of his head as if he’d been running his hands through it. Somehow it suited him, but it was quite a contrast to the quiet elegance of Riario’s wardrobe.

Yet Riario wasn’t entirely at ease. There was an avidity in his gaze as he watched Leo throwing the ball. There was a heat that even she could feel, a hunger in his eyes, that was disconcerting. She was surprised that Leo didn’t seem to be aware of it, and she was even more surprised that Riario wasn’t hiding it.

Riario was painfully aware that he was revealing himself to Vanessa. She was too perceptive for his taste, but he simply was incapable of masking himself tonight. He’d been called out of town for a week, and dealing with his father was a deeply frustrating experience. He’d exerted iron control to present the façade of perfect obedience Alessandro demanded, and he was seething inside. He needed an outlet; he wanted Leo.

And Leo was there, tantalizingly close, and frustratingly out of reach. He was distant, absorbed in a project, his mind racing, oblivious to anything else. Precisely the way Riario liked him; he liked the challenge of breaking through the furious whirl of thoughts, forcing Leo back into his own body, dominating him physically until Leo broke and became still and pliant under his touch.

Back at the house, a few hands of poker went quickly, and then Leo became bored. He was easy to distract, to entice into the privacy of his room. Riario had mentally prepared to wait as long as that took, before he could unleash himself on the body of his lover.

This was an entirely different matter. Leo was far more engaged in cracking the code of the bowling alley than he ever was merely playing cards. He was also more physically present, moving and gesturing as his emotions rose and fell. Riario could not take his eyes off him, found himself noticing every line of the body he was aching to touch.

Leo bent over to release the ball, and Riario could all but taste the way the curve of his spine led to the roundness of his ass. When the pins fell as he wanted, Leo threw up his arms in exultation, and his shirt crept up over the waistband of his jeans. Jeans that were slung low on his hips, showing the soft line beneath his navel, the sharp creases along his hips. 

Riario knew too well exactly how he wanted to trace those lines down Leo’s abdomen, to tease and to mark, to feel Leo’s thighs trembling under his hands. It was an exquisite torture to watch and be unable to touch. With a nod, he excused himself from the group, and managed to maintain a civilized walking pace to the bar at the far side of the room. He claimed a stool and ordered a scotch.

God, what he wanted to do to that man! He could imagine with a tactile specificity the way his tongue would glide over that skin, the feel of that ass in his hands as he hitched Leo’s hips closer. . . .he’d had to leave, or he’d lose his self-control and do something he would regret. There was no way to be private here, there were school children present for God’s sake, and he refused to risk being seen rutting in the bathroom.

He downed the scotch, his reward for walking away instead. The liquor was an indifferent one, both bitter and oily in his mouth. It was the best on offer, however, and so he bought the bottle. He had tossed back two quick shots, and was now able to nurse the third when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Julian was sliding onto the bar stool next to him, nodding at the bottle. “Mind if I join you?”

Riario was able to speak, though the desire rumbling through his veins made his voice come out rather hoarse. “Is it that bad?”

“It’s bowling, Riario. By definition, it’s bad.” Julian signaled the bartender for another glass, and poured himself two fingers of the amber liquor. “Here’s to never having to do this again.” He tipped his glass in a gesture like a toast, and tossed it back. He expression froze and he shuddered.

“Damn, that is _not_ a good scotch.” He ran the back of his hand across his lips. “I suspect there isn’t anything better though, is there?”

Riario shook his head. “Nothing I would waste a good cigar on.”

Julian smiled. It was a charming smile. It was an expensive smile—he had been raised on the best and was used to getting it. “A man after my own heart. Perhaps some day we can elevate their tastes. I suspect you and I have a preference for a good single malt.”

Riario turned his glass about in his hands. This was certainly not a “good single malt.” It was better, though, than watching Leo while being prohibited by good manners from touching him. The acrid burn of the mediocre drink was having a distracting effect, and he found he could even make conversation.

“Did you already lose your bet to Vanessa?”

Julian laughed. It was every bit as charming as his smile. This Medford boy was as charismatic as his reputation indicated. “Oh, I lose to Vanessa as quickly as I possibly can. The secret is, if I frame the bet the right way, I come out ahead whether I win or lose.” He poured a second glass for himself, offered to top off Riario as well. “She is rather talented in bed, and she is quite a generous victor.”

At that, Julian sank into a short reverie, a smile playing around his lips. “Too bad the family is so biased against her. Sometimes it is unbearable, being a Medford.”

“Oh, so you have demanding and interfering parents too?”

“You don’t even know.” Julian swirled the scotch in his glass, but thought better of trying to savor the aroma; the first bitter scent was more than enough. “They sure didn’t work too hard to find this vintage, did they?” He looked into the glass skeptically, then shrugged and tossed off the contents. “It’s still better than bowling.”

Julian poured him a generous fourth drink, and he could feel his eyelids getting heavy. The bottle was noticeably depleted as well. He knew he should stop drinking if he was going to drive home tonight, but all his willpower so far was going into resisting grabbing Leo’s ass, right there, in front of everyone, and kissing him so hard that they would stop caring that even Nico could see them.

He became aware that Julian was talking again. “So, how well do you know Leo? Word is that he is quite a find. Some of the computer science faculty think he’s on the verge of creating something unheard of. Genius even.” He picked up a laminated card and flipped it, scanning the back and the front. “I am going to need to eat something to absorb this terrible scotch, or we are going to have to spend the night here sleeping on the lanes. What looks the least horrific?”

“That is a question that has no possible answer. Everything on that placard looks to be no more edible than the plastic casing.” He could do this. He could distract himself from the carnal craving he felt; he could talk as if he wasn’t entirely distracted by the fact that Leo was only a few dozen steps away.

“So, are your people from around here?” It was a casual question; not a surprising one, really, from a man whose family dominated the political landscape the way the Medfords did. Julian came from a long line of highly successful politicians: Senators, governors, even a former president was a first cousin. They all watched out for each other, they all eased each other into powerful positions. They knew everybody: he would have been an anomaly to a man like Julian Medford.

“No, I don’t really have ‘people.’” Riario set the glass down on the bar, aware that it would be prudent to stop drinking for a bit.

Julian nodded. “I don’t know any Riarios,” he mused, “other than you. Not a political family?”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” Riario brushed his bangs out of his eyes. “My father wasn’t a family kind of guy; I was basically raised by an aunt and her husband. I use their name. There aren’t any Riarios anybody has heard of.”

Just then, Vanessa breezed into the bar. The very air seemed less stale with her there, and she planted a kiss on Julian’s cheek as she sat next to him. “Hey, babe. Whatcha drinking, and what’s a girl gotta do to get some of that?”

Riario closed his eyes as Julian snaked an arm around Vanessa’s waist and pulled her closer. “I can get you some of this,” he said, placing her hand on his crotch, taking the opportunity to flick the tip of his tongue into her ear. “Just say the word, and I’ll take you away from all of this.”

Riario tried not to hear that, as he also tried not to hear the muffled groan that surely meant Vanessa had given Julian a fondle and a squeeze before she spoke to the bartender. “Hey, Jorge—can I get another glass?”

Julian continued nuzzling the side of her face, while murmuring enticements to go home to bed. “What is going on out there that is worth staying here, when we could be back at home and you could collect on your bet?”

Vanessa laughed, and turned her bright face to Riario. “You should see what Leo is doing out there. He’s basically taught himself—not how to play, exactly—but how to hit only the pins he wants to strike. He’s got Nico and Zo calling out random numbers, and he’s trying to leave only those pins standing.”

Riario smiled tightly, the edges of his lips tucked into the corners of his beard. “And how is that going? I would assume—“ he paused a moment to think. “I would assume that Zoroaster has been winning the accompanying bets, but the tide of his fortune has just started to turn.”

Vanessa took the glass that Julian set in front of her. She downed the scotch and barely flinched. “I have no idea how you know that, but you are right. So now he’s trying to get Leo to give up the bumpers.”

Julian laughed, a sound that would be a snort in anyone less well bred. “I can’t believe he is relying on bumpers.”

Vanessa beamed. “Well, he claims he is running a controlled experiment and he can’t alter that variable. Nico thinks it’s just an excuse. Zo has chatted up at least half a dozen ladies with no visible success.” She allowed Julian to pour her a drink that was beyond a double. “None of them are keeping up even a pretense at following the game rules any more. They have collected a truly impressive number of balls and I am pretty sure they are constructing statistical models. It’s beyond this dance major’s comprehension. So I came here.” She took a sip of her drink, and made a face. “I thought at least in the bar I could appreciate what was going on, but that is not a good scotch, is it?”

Riario leaned back a bit in order to contemplate both of them. It was a little harder than it should have been to put both Julian and Vanessa into focus. Perhaps he’d drunk more than he realized. They were both lovely physical specimens, socially adept, clever, charming, warm, and utterly _utterly_ failing to appeal to his own libido. This was worth thinking about, because it allowed him to think about what drew him so powerfully to Leo.

It wasn’t just his physical beauty, because Julian was just as objectively attractive. Even Zoroaster was arguably better looking, but Riario had no reaction to either of them. Even if they were available—available to him—they paled to insignificance when compared to Leo.

He was contemplating whether there was a vein of danger in Leo’s cleverness, and if that was what he recognized, when there was a shout from the end of the lanes. Looking up, he could see hands up in the air, and hear whoops of celebration. It was only a short time before Nico, Zo, and Leo himself came bounding into the room.

“Oh my gosh, he did it! You, you should have seen it Vanessa!” Nico’s eyes were shining, and the broad smile across his face made him look even more like a Renaissance cherub than usual. “Come see, you can see the score card, it’s proof!”

Zo grabbed Vanessa’s glass and finished the scotch without shuddering at all. Perhaps he hadn’t even tasted it. “Fuck me if he didn’t do it! He said he could, and you never bet against Leo!” He stopped for a second, an expression on his face as though he had just actually experienced the acrid flavor of the drink he had stolen, but then went on. “Of course, we convinced quite a few people to do just that.”

Vanessa was pulling the story out of Nico; something about the mathematics of a perfect score, and getting rid of the bumpers. “It was 300! He just started a new line on the scorecard, and he said he was going to do it, and he just kept rolling strikes and he just did twelve in a row and the machine even had a special animation for it!”

Leo looked pleased, but in an abstract way. Nico was proud of what his friend had accomplished, and was also flushed with adrenaline from the experience. Zo was delighted with his own financial windfall, first and foremost, but also pleased that his belief in his friend’s powers had once again been validated. In contrast, Leo was already looking for his next enthusiasm; this experience was already a closed book of the past to him.

Of course, they all had to go see the score sheet, and the animation that was apparently still running. Leo wasn’t interested, and he looked a bit agitated. “Come outside with me, I need to get outside.” Riario left several bills on the bar and followed him out, shrugging into his black coat but not buttoning it.

Once outside, Leo walked around the edge of the building, where the neon light was not as intrusive, and pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He had one in his mouth and was opening a pack of matches when Riario reached him.

With a deft move, Riario plucked the cigarette out of that mouth (that mouth!) and threw it aside. “I prefer the taste of you unadulterated,” he growled, and pushed Leo against the wall, pressing their chests against each other as he skimmed his teeth across Leo’s lips. It was hard and desperate, as his fingers pressed into the other man’s hips. Perhaps there would be bruises later. Riario calculated they had at most ten minutes before the others would come looking for them. How long does a cigarette take to smoke? How long would it take for Riario to calm his own desire enough to drive back to where he could have Leo the way they both preferred?

Leo licked at his lower lip, sucking and biting, hands sliding down his side to slip inside the waistband of the black jeans. “We should go,” on both their tongues, tongues that passed the words between them without speaking. Pushing away and pulling closer simultaneously, their hips ground into each other as their hands tugged at each other. Leo’s scent filling his nostrils, Riario could not think strategically (Riario always thinks strategically), could not worry about who might see them rutting against an alley wall, who might report this to his father. He could not wait for the touch of rumpled sheets and the freedom of a private bed, because Leo was here, under his hands, against the wall, kissing and tugging too.


	6. Drug of Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zo has discovered Riario's background, and he's worried enough to tell Leo. Leo goes in search of Riario, and spends the night in Riario's apartment.

There was one house rule that everybody knew, and everybody followed: when Leo’s door was closed, nobody bothered him. A closed door meant that Leo was in a fury of concentration, and it was better for everybody not to disturb him.

Vanessa learned this lesson the hard way only a couple of years ago. Leo hadn’t come out for days, not even to eat, and she worried about his health. Sure, she could hear him rattling around inside—he wasn’t _dead_ —but she couldn’t stand the idea that he might be ruining his health. So she made up a tray of soup, a good sized chunk of French bread, some cheese, and a fruit salad and tapped on the door. Of course, there was no answer, so she went ahead and entered.

There was nothing wrong with Leo’s startle reflex, and he managed to knock the entire tray out of her hands, everything smashed, and she was lucky the soup didn’t burn her face. Worst of all, Leo never even noticed the disaster. It took a week for him to notice the broken dishes on the floor, and longer still to figure out what happened.

Zo had known Leo much longer, and he still managed to walk into the middle of a chemistry experiment. Leo looked up, and the beaker exploded. To this day, Zo had a scar on his forearm and one across his ribs. At least that one didn’t show, no matter how far he unbuttoned his shirt.

Nico had never actually ever been inside Leo’s room. He’d been sufficiently scared by the way both Zo and Vanessa had yelled at him about it. He generally gave it as wide a berth as was physically possible. The stories Zo told him about his scar—well, even if Nico didn’t really believe that he _literally_ almost died, he certainly didn’t see any reason to take the risk either 

So it was a measure of how seriously he took the situation, that Zo stood outside the forbidding closed door and rubbed his fingers over the mark on his forearm. “I am a fucking idiot,” he mumbled.

Of course, it was Zo who pieced together the clues: the casually dropped comments, the significant silences, the unintentionally revealing statements. It was Zo who understood the significance of being “raised by an aunt” and pieced together Riario’s biological parentage.

It was Zo who was going to have to tell Leo. “Fuck me,” he sighed, and opened the door.

Currently, Leo was up to his elbows in some weird robotic construction, and the smell of old fashioned lead solder fried the air. The room was stuffy and rank, piles of cast off clothing and strange bits of metal littered the floor. Inevitably, Zo stepped on something that he couldn’t see, lost his balance and careened into Leo.

“Oh, _shit!_ ” Leo pulled his hand out of the box he was working on, and shook it wildly before sucking his burned fingers. “Damn it, Zo. Can’t you guys leave me alone for _five fucking minutes_ so I can finish this?”

Zo looked into his friend’s furious eyes, and his heart sank. It was as bad as it could be—this was not “distracted Leo,” or even “hyper Leo.” This was what they called “mad Leo,” the Leo whose brain was running so hard and fast that he qualified as manic. Leo had entered that stage where he jittered and swore. It was quite possible that he had neither slept nor eaten for days.

This was a terrible moment to bring him bad news about his boyfriend.

Zo put out his hands and adopted a soothing tone. “I’m sorry, Leo, I know how you hate to be interrupted. But it’s me—Zo. Remember me? The guy who always has your best interests at heart? The guy who wouldn’t interrupt if it wasn’t _really fucking important?_ ”

Leo looked like shit, in Zo’s semi-professional opinion. His skin was pale and waxy, and his eyes were red and irritated in the dark hollows of the sockets. He stared back, but showed no real recognition. Obviously, his mind was a million miles away, and it was tempting to just give up. Come back another time, when Leo might be in a better frame of mind. Of course, given what Zo had learned, he didn’t think he had the luxury of time. Leo was already in more danger than he knew, and if there was a trap being set for him, it could spring at any time.

Zo ran his hands through his own hair, and swore. “Leo. Leo! I need you to pay attention for a minute, okay mate?” Carefully, he took the hot soldering iron from Leo’s hand and looked around for a place to set it. There was a spot on Leo’s worktable that seemed to be free of immediately combustible materials, where his laptop was apparently also running a lengthy batch of code.

Carefully choosing where he set his feet, Zo recrossed the room, and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. Leo started violently.

“I _told_ you, Zo, I need to be _left alone_.”

“Damn it, Leo, this is _important_. I have some information about Riario.” The bastard’s mere name reached Leo in a way that Zo’s actual, physical presence could not. A spark of light came back into his eyes, and it cracked Zo’s heart completely.

“Leo, look, I need you to focus on me here for a minute, okay? Here, maybe you should sit down.” Zo kept one hand on his friend’s arm, while he scrabbled around with the other for a chair. “Just, just sit down, okay? Can you do that? Can you really pay attention right now?”

Automatically, Leo lowered himself into the chair. Zo crouched on his heels in front of his oldest friend, looking up into Leo’s distant expression.

“I’ve been trying to track Riario, remember? And I said I couldn’t find anybody who knew anything about him, no gossip, no jilted ex-lovers, nobody had any dirt on him. Remember?” God, what if Leo didn’t even remember that? “You told me ‘not everybody kisses and tells,’ do you remember that?” 

A wistful smile crossed Leo’s face, and Zo decided that was as much confirmation as he was going to get. “Well, okay, here’s the thing, Leo. He’s not a Riario, he’s a della Rovere." 

There was exactly no change in Leo’s expression, so Zo tried again. “Come on, Leo, I know you know that name. Della Rovere—the arms contractor? The guy behind DRV, you know, that company that isn’t allowed to recruit on campus after those protests a couple of years ago.” There had been protests, and Zo had been there, although he was vague on the details. Mostly he remembered going home with a pair of obliging siblings. Redheads.

“DRV is a very, _very_ secretive organization, Leo. There are all kinds of rumors about it having connections to intelligence agencies and surveillance companies. Supposedly, they’re the ones who built the CIA’s black sites for them—they may even _run_ those sites. Nobody knows for sure because the company is so secretive that nobody can prove anything. And the man behind DRV is Alessandro della Rovere, and that’s Riario’s fucking _father_.”

Leo simply stared for a moment, and Zo could almost hear the brain clicking away behind his eyes. Then he just stood up and walked back to the box he had been working on, picking up the soldering iron on the way. 

Zo swore. “Leo, you dish faced wankstain, you have got to fucking listen to me. This is fucking _serious._ This della Rovere guy is _extremely_ creepy. Like, beyond NSA reading all your emails creepy. More like ‘can make you disappear’ level of creepy. Like, if he got pissed off at you, you would be fucking _lucky_ to end up at Guantanamo Bay, because at least people know where that is.”

Leo's back was turned, and he just waved a hand toward the door. The message was clear. He wasn’t listening and he wanted Zo to leave. But Zo couldn’t quit, not yet, not without making one more effort. 

“Leo, stop for a second, and listen to me. _Please._ You need to be careful. Riario is _dangerous_. I need you swear you are going to watch yourself.”

“I don’t have _time_ for this, Zo!” Leo’s voice was pressured and harsh, all the more cutting for the lack of swear words. “I am in the middle of something and right now, you are worse than useless, you are interfering. Go. Leave. _Get out!_ ” The last two words were punctuated with the crash of something falling to the floor. Leo stood stock still, refusing to even look at his friend.

Zo left. He closed the door with exaggerated quietness: if ever a door could be closed sarcastically, this was the one. He heard something bounce off the wall as he stepped away. It might have been personal. Leo might have been angry at him, or it might just have been a more general frustration. It didn’t matter, since Leo hadn’t taken him seriously.

Discouraged, he trudged into the kitchen, where Nico was making himself the sludgy hot cocoa he preferred to coffee. He took one look at Zo, grabbed a mug and filled it from the coffee pot. “What was that about? Is the maestro in one of his pissy moods?”

Zo took the mug and opened the refrigerator for condensed milk. “Yes, and fuck me for trying to get him to pay attention to anything else when he’s in the middle of something.” Morosely, he stirred his drink, and sat down at the dining room table, staring at nothing.

He looked up when Nico brought his cocoa and pulled out the chair opposite. “What was so important that you even went into the bear cave like that?” It was remarkably consoling that someone understood; there was a reason he had picked such a terrible time to try to talk to Leo.

“I’m worried, Nico. And hey, you know me, I’m not a worrier.” He lifted the mug, but just set it back down again. “And before you accuse me of being all mother hen about him, I really think this is a problem.” Nico just looked at him steadily, inviting him to explain himself. Nico was really an old soul, Zo thought fondly. He didn’t think he was anywhere as mature when he was that young. Fuck, it was arguable that he still was more immature than Nico, despite their obvious age difference.

“I’ve figured out who Riario is, and it scares me, Nico. He’s not really a Riario. He mentioned to Julian that he’d been raised by an aunt, and that’s when I realized Riario wasn’t his real name.” He turned the mug around in his hands, making small chinking sounds against the table. “I mean, it might be his legal name, but it wasn’t the one on his birth certificate. He real family—his biological dad—is Alessandro della Rovere.”

The name hung over the table, ominous to Zo’s ears as a thundercloud. Nico’s expression didn’t change, though, and Zo realized he’d have to explain it all again. Why was he the only person in this house who had any idea who this was? “Della Rovere—DRV? Surely you’ve heard of DRV? They are literally the ‘Architects of Death’—they sell arms on behalf of the government when Congress doesn't want to know about it. They provide security in places we aren’t exactly at war with yet. They built the black sites where the CIA sends enemy combatants they want to ‘interrogate.’ Riario’s dad is the guy who owns that whole company. They are the ones who get all the Department of Defense contracts to build shit in Afghanistan and Iraq, all the places we go in and occupy. That’s just the stuff that anybody even _knows_ about. If there’s anything the government wants to keep people from hearing about, anything that is just too creepy to let the public know—they hire DRV to do it.” Zo suddenly sat back in his chair, a stunned expression on his face. “No _wonder_ I couldn’t find anything on Riario when I was looking for it. Stupid me, of course he wasn’t a monk, he’s just got major security apparatus behind him. Nobody _can_ talk.” 

“Okay, got it. DRV is bad. But what does this have to do with Leo?” Nico’s expression hadn’t changed, except when the cocoa turned out to be too hot to drink. It was clear Zo was very upset. So he would be patient until Zo got around to making sense. 

A garbled collection of consonants and vowels spilled from Zo’s lips in frustration, entirely failing to resolve into actual words. He sputtered for a few moments, then managed to say, “There are a million reasons that this has to do with Leo! Just, just imagine what the most dangerously powerful man on the planet could do to Leo, when he’s got no accountability and no one would ever know!” 

Before Nico could say anything, the door to the back bedroom opened, and Vanessa floated out. “Are you talking about Riario and Leo? I need to hear this.” Julian followed, and settled in a nearby armchair.

“Zo says he found out something about Riario’s father,” Nico offered. “Apparently it is very upsetting, but I can’t get him to make sense about it.”

Zo put his hands on either side of his head and tangled his fingers into his curls, growling with frustration and the pain of pulling his own hair. “Riario. You know, that dark and scary looking dude who disappears with our friend Leo and who we know nothing about? The one who’s real name isn’t even ‘Riario.’ It’s ‘della Rovere,’ as in Alessandro della Rovere, CEO and owner of DRV, the quasi-military contractor who builds secret sites for the CIA, who supplies paramilitary forces and materiel for all the places the US invades without declaring war? The guy who has been accused of making billions of dollars by supplying troops in Afghanistan while simultaneously making secret back door deals to export opium and heroin out of the country. The guy who makes Dick Cheney look like Mary Fucking Poppins inside the chalk painting. The guy who personally spent like a billion dollars of his own money to push anti-gay legislation because he thinks homosexuality is an abomination and anybody who is gay deserves to burn in hell.”

Vanessa’s eyes got wider and wider throughout this rant, and Julian simply nodded. Of course, it made sense that Julian knew who Alessandro della Rovere was; his family probably had experienced any number of lobbying visits from his hired help.

“So, this is Riario’s actual father. Leo is dating a guy whose father has demonstrated his hatred of just about everything Leo stands for, and who is bound to see Leo as the man who debauched and damned his son. _Of course_ I’m worried, because when this guy realizes his son is gay for our Leo, he’s going to come after the one he’s going to blame for the situation.”

Julian pulled out his phone and scrolled through search results to locate a video. “Nessa, you should see this. Zo is right—this della Rovere is a scary dude.” The clip was from one of the Sunday morning political roundtable shows that Vanessa never watched. “This is from a couple of years ago, when della Rovere was behind the big push to repeal gay equality laws.” A large, well-fed, balding man dominated a television studio round table, his voice booming, his face smug with righteousness as he denounced same sex marriage rights as “government sanctioned deviance.”

Nico looked appalled. “He looks unhinged!”

Julian took his phone back. “Someone like that gets so used to having things go his way that he literally has no idea how to wrap his head around being wrong. Or not getting his way. And with his money, and his government contacts, he’s practically running his own shadow government. And that’s Riario’s dad?”

Zo nodded. “As far as I’ve been able to find out, it’s like he told you—he was raised by his aunt. She was a della Rovere, but she married this Riario guy, and took in her nephew. There are some other kids in the family, but they don’t have much of a media presence. Possibly due to della Rovere keeping a lid on everything—there just isn’t that much verifiable information out there. It just stinks of covert operations and national security secrets and it’s possible that even the stuff I found puts me in violation of the Patriot Act. Like I said—this is one scary dude.”

Vanessa, as always, was looking for the silver lining, the positive spin on the situation. “But, if he was raised by his aunt, and he’s here in the grad school, maybe he doesn’t have anything to do with his father. I mean, he’s even changed his name. Even if he is related, we don’t know he has anything contact with Riario, right? Maybe Leo isn’t even going to show up on his radar at all.”

The muffled sounds of Leo’s frustration were still audible through his bedroom door. It seemed ridiculous that their friend—scruffy, unworldly Leo—could possibly be of any interest to a industrialist like della Rovere, someone who regularly dined with senators and presidents. He was just Leo, the guy who stole kitchen implements and never completed projects; Leo, the guy who frequently forgot to eat or sleep or change his clothes.

Even Zo recognized that Leo was comparatively insignificant, but his visceral fear for his friend was too strong to be completely overruled, however logical Vanessa’s statements seemed. “I hope you are right, Vanessa. I would love to be wrong about this. Mostly because I don’t think I can get Leo to listen to me.” 

*****

It was days later that Leo surfaced and realized he hadn’t seen or heard from Riario. In fairness, it had been a busy time, and he had made significant progress in some projects. It was also a period in which he only slept in snatches, catnaps at best, so his sense of passing time was erratic at best.

However, it seemed like it had been unusually long since they had been together; how days had it been? He could feel himself buzzing, accelerating, that manic energy that fueled and consumed him at the same time; this was why he needed drugs. This was why he needed Riario. 

Because now he was in that despondent point when he’d solved the most interesting problems of the robots. Now he could feel his brain acting up, looking for more challenges. He wasn’t bored yet, but he could feel the boredom on the edges of his brain, like a predator stalking behind him, gaining ground. It was that feeling that pushed him to using drugs: when he couldn’t find a problem interesting enough to keep his brain busy, it would cannibalize itself, creating nightmares and waking hallucinations. It was—nearly—bad enough that he even tried going back to some of his unfinished projects to complete them. It turned out that boredom and tedium were not identical, but were instead two different forms of hell. 

Since Riario had come into his life, he had an antidote to that terrible feeling. There was something about the dark intensity of Riario’s gaze, the fervid sex, the _focus_ he brought to Leo’s scattered life that was _better_ than the drugs, made the drugs unnecessary. So now that he had finished (as much as he was going to finish) his current crop of projects, he needed something to keep himself occupied, and Riario appeared to be his drug of choice.

Where _was_ the man anyway? Until recently, he had turned up at the house reliably. And Leo realized he had no idea where he lived. He sent some pleading texts, but got no replies. He could tell they were delivered, but it looked like they were not read. What the hell was going on, and what was he going to do if Riario didn’t appear to save him from boredom?

With a growing sense of desperation he started rifling through his papers, to find the loose pages where he’d sketched Riario. The first ones to turn up were mostly eyes, dark pools beneath black brows. Riario’s eyes were fierce, a natural starting point for a sketch. To his own disappointment, the drawings tended to peter out into vague shapes, unfinished and unsatisfying.

It was because Riario’s face was never still. It was impossible to capture his expression; even when he was simply sitting, Riario’s thoughts played across his face, sometimes wry, sometimes arrogant, always intelligent and focused, a smile that was never happy, a glance that was never casual. Leo suspected he was constantly evaluating the people around him, reading their inner desires and seeking exploitable weaknesses. It was why he was so good at poker, which was also (not coincidentally) why Poker Night had stopped happening.

Leo pushed the sheets away, frustrated with his lack of success in capturing the man, and frustrated in the realization that by failing to capture him, he had only honed his own desire to a sharper point. He needed Riario; it was a craving.

Further down in the piles, Leo found some nude studies, all isolated pieces of Riario’s body: just his shoulders, perhaps, or his back, or buttocks, or legs. None of them were complete, all of them more or less stolen while Riario was asleep and Leo suffered his customary insomnia. They were hurried and incomplete, because he had not dared risk Riario waking and finding out about them. He wasn’t sure if Riario knew about his nighttime drawing. He never mentioned it, because he didn’t want to be told to stop.

There was one of Riario on his stomach, forearms folded under his head, his face turned away; Leo had only been able to sketch the fall of the black hair onto the pillow. That one faded out beneath the shoulder blades. A study of a leg and hip had happened because Riario kicked out from under the blankets one night, and Leo had to stop when he’d rolled over. All of them were mere fragments, bits of anatomy that frustratingly did not add up to a complete picture. Nor did these sketches capture the sensations he found himself thinking about now: the line of Riario’s throat when he threw his head back and moaned, the feel of Riario’s long fingers pressed on Leo’s hips, the sound of his name as Riario rasped it, the smell of soap on his skin.

Irritated, Leo dropped the pages and scanned the room. Nothing interested him, nothing held his attention, not even the mystery of the missing measuring cups. He realized his left leg was jittering, he was starting to swing his arms, he was a mess of bored nerves. He slammed out of this room, and into the kitchen, where Zo was making himself coffee.

“Coffee, yes! Give me some of that coffee!” Zo looked up surprised. Leo hadn’t been out of his room for days, and certainly hadn’t engaged in conversation. He looked like a mess, his hair sticking straight up, circles under his eyes stark against the pallor of his skin. His fingers were dancing and he was bouncing on the balls of his feet. This was what Zo thought of as “Risk Seeking Leo;” the Leo who bet profligately, who went out into the night seeking drugs or anonymous sex. They hadn’t seen this Leo for months now.

When Risk Seeking Leo showed up, Zo knew it was important to speak calmly and to find something to capture his interest. Caffeine was a wild card in this situation. It could be exactly the stimulant he needed to calm himself, the way Adderall helped him manage the ADHD. Sometimes, however, the caffeine simply dialed up the nervous energy. Since there was no way to tell beforehand what the effect would be, Zo chose to appease the monster, and handed over his own steaming mug.

“Watch out, Leo, it’s really. . .”

“Ouch, damn it, Zo, that is hot!” Of course he’d grabbed the mug and simply downed the drink, didn’t notice that the mug itself was hot, didn’t stop to gauge the temperature of the steam rising off the liquid. He was at the point where he needed sensation and he didn’t bother questioning whether it was pleasant or not.

He knew he needed Riario; this was when Riario made the most sense, as a flood of sensation, of physical experience, without thought getting in the way at all. Too many thoughts were already in the way, the press of them building up behind a flimsy wall in his brain and he didn’t want to be thinking right now, he didn’t have the energy, it’s the way his brain sabotaged itself, flooding him with ideas and demands he didn’t have the energy to answer or even sort through.

Zo could see something going on behind Leo’s eyes; he was watching carefully to see what effect the caffeine was having. Oddly, it seemed to have no effect at all; Leo was exactly as wound up and volatile as when he first walked into the kitchen. “Can I get you something else?” Zo gestured toward the empty mug. “Something to burn more of the taste buds off your tongue?”

Leo swung around, surprised. He’d already forgotten Zo was there. Too bad it was Zo, and not Riario. Zo was a good guy, and certainly plenty attractive, but wasn’t who he was craving. Disappointing, unless. . .unless Zo could help him get to Riario.

Vaguely he remembered Zo coming into his room in the middle of that robotics nightmare. He’d said something about Riario, but all he could recall was that it was negative, and really he didn’t want to hear anything like that. Not then, but maybe it could be useful now. Maybe he knew where to find Riario.

His friend was still standing there, and Leo passed his hands over his face, trying to arrange his features into something like a normal expression. The rushing in his head was so loud now that he really wasn’t sure if he was communicating with actual words, or if his thoughts just pressed their way through his skull and into the air.

Words. He would use words. He would use words and be cunning so Zo would give him what he needed. He had to replay Zo’s last comment in his head; he had already lost the thread of the conversation.

“Right. Oh, no, I don’t need anything like that. Tell me, you did come in while I was in the middle of my robots, right? To tell me something about RIario?”

It was almost unfair how thrilled Zo looked. “Yes! Oh thank the gods, you remembered! Yes! Yes, I came in to warn you!”

Leo tried to remember as much as he could. “Riario’s father, you were warning me about his father who isn’t a Riario?”

Zo clapped his hands together and rubbed them. It hadn’t been a waste of effort after all. “Exactly! I _knew_ you were listening!”

This was the point Leo knew he was going to start being cunning. He was going to look straight into his friend’s face, and he was going to lie. To be honest with himself, this felt exactly like the way he used to act when he was on the hunt for illegal substances. This was, in fact, drug seeking behavior.

“Do you have Riario’s address? I think—I think I need to talk to him about this.”

Incredulity dawned on Zo’s face, and it pissed Leo right off. Yes, he’d been fucking Riario for months now, and no, he didn’t know his address because _it hadn’t mattered._ This was the twenty-first century; they had cell phones and texting, they had Leo’s room and Riario’s office. He didn’t know Riario’s address because he never asked for it. It wasn’t like he was sending him letters!

He didn’t have time for this, he didn’t have time for Zo to lecture, or to withhold information. The buzzing was getting louder and he was feeling itchy and antic. Anything Zo knew, Leo needed to know, and needed to know _right fucking now_ so he could figure out any clues, any hints as to where Riario was so that he could go find him and silence the roar in his head. It didn’t matter if Zo disapproved, because Leo needed that hard body over his own, those fierce dark eyes boring into his own, making him finally still, finally quiet, finally calm.

The address: Zo knew Riario’s address. Leo said something meant to be reassuring—maybe he had promised that he was going there to break up? It didn’t matter, because he had a destination, he had only to go there to stop the thoughts from breaking through and flooding him. He left the house, car keys jangling in his hand, and drove away into the night like the devil was swarming after him.

Several minutes later, Vanessa walked into the lighted kitchen to see Zo standing with an empty coffee mug, staring at the door where Leo wasn’t.

“You know,” she offered, taking the mug and rinsing it out. “Leo’s been clean for weeks now. I know you don’t like Riario, and I know you are suspicious, but you have to give him that. Leo doesn’t do drugs any more.”

“Because Riario is his drug of choice, he’s said it himself. And fuck me, but that’s just like giving heroin to an addict to get him off methadone.”

***** 

Geographically, the building wasn’t actually that far away, but on the socio-economic scale, it was light years beyond where Leo lived. The gleaming brass doors of the elevator reflected the rose marble cladding of the entryway, and Leo could watch himself bounce as he waited for the elevator to arrive. Stairs would be faster, and would serve to burn off some of his accumulated nervous energy, but there was no indication where they were. The mix of tasteful lack of signage with the extravagant use of expensive materials served to encode an expensive price tag. If he hadn’t been so jumpy, Leo might have searched for the stairs just to thumb his nose at the apparent judgment that stairs were declassé.

But that kind of curiosity was for a time when his own brain wasn’t actively working against him, so while he waited for the elevator he wrote chemical equations with his fingers on the brass doors. Idly, he wondered if the oils would tarnish the glossy finish, or if the markings might show up the next time the doors were cleaned, secret messages revealed as if by magic.

Once on the top floor ( _of course it was a penthouse_ ) he burst out of the elevator and all but ran to the end of the hall, where he leaned on the doorbell until finally ( _finally!_ ) the door opened to Riario, wearing black jeans and a black oxford shirt open at the collar. He was barefoot, which made him seem that much more vulnerable, that much more devourable. Leo had a confused picture of the inside of the apartment, more marble of course, expensive electronics and appliances as he pushed his way into the room.

Riario raised his eyebrows, and seemed poised to say something, but Leo did not give him any time. “I need. . . “ he croaked, and reached for Riario’s belt loops to pull him close.

There was no resistance, although Riario did not advance either; he allowed himself to be pulled by his hips until they contacted and Leo pressed his groin, hard, against the black jeans. He crawled his hands up Riario’s black shirt, still pulling, willing him closer, and Riario still did not resist, but he did not volunteer his participation either.

Leo raised his head to see Riario’s expression, and there it was, that look he tried and failed to capture on paper. The look that started as consideration, as he calculated the various ways things might play out, evaluated the costs and benefits of each course of action. The head back, the eyes hooded but calm, suddenly flooding with decision, with desire, with the predatory look that fired Leo’s blood. A tiny part of his mind, not yet swamped with sensation, tried to remember the look to reproduce later. Leo stopped paying attention then, concentrating on the warm body he could feel beneath the clothes.

It was like a fix, he needed Riario so badly, that it had felt inevitable. Of course Riario was going to be at home, and of course he was going to give himself over to Leo’s desire. But there was a moment where Riario pulled away, and Leo panicked. Had he lost? Was he going to be denied the drug he so desperately craved? But Riario was only closing the door, locking them inside together. Then with all the power of his beautifully defined muscles, he pushed back, pouring his own desire into Leo’s captured mouth.

The kiss was fierce and scalding, just as Leo needed it, velvet lips crushed against his own, as Riario’s mouth opened into a toothless bite that tugged him inside the slick wetness. Riario’s beard was longer now, and softer, but still scratched the tender skin around Leo’s lips, a sharp contrast to the delicious silk of his mouth. Leo sighed and tilted his head back as Riario’s tongue entered and possessed him.

They were pressed together, hard bodies aligned from knees to chest. Leo still needed more, his hands on Riario’s ass, pulling him harder, closer. Feeling the high firmness of the buttocks he was bruising with his desperate fingers. But it was not enough, not close enough, so Leo scrabbled at the front of Riario’s shirt. He wanted skin contact, needed their bodies to fully meet. In the paradox of desire, he groaned as Riario moved away those few inches to unbutton his own shirt. “Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go,” tumbling from his lips as he lost the kiss, the contact, even as he knew he needed the space to get even closer. He caught the hem of his own shirt and stripped it over his head, tangling shirt and hoodie and winter jacket into a heap on the floor as Riario’s mouth fastened to his neck, wet and hot along the pulse points, sliding down to his naked chest. He moaned, the sound coming out a whispered plea: “Riario.”

*****

Upstairs ( _how did they get here, Leo couldn’t remember navigating the curved stairway_ ) Leo lay in a tangle of sheets across the enormous bed, his eyes unfocused as his breath rushed in and out. This was the way Riario liked him best: naked and vulnerable, no longer armored in arrogance, but desperate and quivering.

It was a heady power, to have Leo respond extravagantly to his touch. He found Leo especially sensitive to contrasts: the scratch down his neck with teeth and beard, rubbing the skin to red rawness, followed by soothing with slick tongue before nipping hard. He could see the whirring brain that usually ran behind Leo’s eyes begin to slow, to stutter, and finally to shut off as Leo abandoned himself to physical sensation.

Discovering Leo at his door had been a surprise, to say the least. He had been careful not to reveal the address, and still wasn’t certain how he’d been found. He might have been displeased, but the Leo at his door was one who was well on his way to being the sensate object that now sprawled across Riario’s bed. He had been all but gift wrapped, the way he’d offered himself. While Riario was disciplined, he was not superhuman. He was still learning Leo’s body, Leo’s responses, and this was another opportunity to refine his skill, to hone his mastery.

Leo the artist, Leo the engineer, Leo the _maker_ was now Leo the object, Leo the recipient, Leo the _acted upon_ , as Riario’s fingers, mouth, tongue made him shiver and Riario licked genius off his skin like sweat. Riario’s long fingers against his neck, mouth sliding over chest, tongue flicking his nipples erect, as Leo moaned and shifted his hips, barely even able to think about what he wanted next. Riario lay along him, body pressing him into the mattress, hands trapped between them before rolling Leo over and straddling him, hands pressing into hips, a knee nudging his thighs apart. 

The orgasm came with a roar of silence in his head, and a blessed darkness.

*****

He didn’t hear Riario get up; he slept for hours. It was daylight again when he woke, still naked but underneath the sheets, a comforter pulled over him. Riario was nowhere to be seen, but Leo’s clothes were folded and stacked at the foot of the bed, with fat fresh towels laid alongside them. The door to the bathroom stood slightly ajar, and a hot shower was suddenly the most compelling thing in the world.

The bathroom was both spare and luxurious, tiled in marble on the floor, the walls, the counters. Large mirrors over the deep double sinks reflected a figure that he barely recognized as himself. He would look better after washing up. The glassed-in shower was large and the water poured like rain from the ceiling. Leo sort of regretted losing the stickiness of Riario’s saliva and seed on his skin as it rinsed away; the compensation was layering on the same shampoo and soap Riario used, like climbing into his scent and living there. He was spared seeing himself afterwards; the mirrors were softly clouded from the steam.

Clothes pulled back on, he padded down the curved stairway in bare feet. ( _Riario wasn’t wearing shoes at first; it’s a surprisingly erotic look, naked feet. He was just returning the favor.)_ The kitchen smelled of fresh coffee, and a mug was set on the counter next to the coffee maker and a basket of croissants. Butter, jam, small plates, a selection of flatware: did Riario live like this, or was he simply exquisitely polite to houseguests? Leo slathered butter over a croissant, wondered how long it had been since he had eaten. He drank half a mug of coffee and finally felt the stirrings of curiosity. Not about science or engineering, for a change. Now he was curious to see what he could learn about Riario from where he lived. 

It turned out—not much. The apartment was a show place, with leather sofas and original art, thick oriental carpets, marble statues, what appeared to be either actual antiques, or authentic reproductions. Everything was exquisite, obviously expensive, but somehow bland, as though it was all chosen by a professional for a photoshoot, rather than being an expression of one person’s personality. Of Riario’s personality.

Whatever sense of guilt he felt was easily overwhelmed by his curiosity, so Leo went ahead and rifled. He opened every cupboard, every drawer, every door he could find. In the bedroom where he woke up, he did find Riario’s clothing, hung on hangers that were carefully spaced on the rod. There were drawers with socks, underwear, pajamas, all perfectly folded and sorted. The bathroom was full of the required products, nicer than any Leo owned, but not themselves especially informative. 

There were no books. No papers either. No note pads, no folders, no spiral notebooks. It was impossible for Leo to comprehend this; his pockets were always full of scraps of paper where he’d jotted down some idea or sketched some figure. He habitually jammed pens deep into his jeans pockets, and more than once he found them after they’d leeched all their ink in the washing machine.

Riario was a grad student, he was a teacher, he was a scholar. How the hell did he have no books or papers in his apartment? Except for the messed up bed, there was little indication that he lived here at all. In fact—and with this realization, Leo looked around again—the only signs of actual life in this entire apartment were the ones he’d left. The tumbled bed linens, the crumbs and dirty dishes where he’d eaten, the drawers he’d failed to close completely while investigating. There was literally nothing that indicated that another human being lived in this space.

That thought was so depressing that he changed his mind about waiting for Riario to return. What would he do here to pass the time if he stayed? How long would he have to wait? He picked up his coat, and walked out the door. It gave a sad groan and clicked behind him.

 

 

 


	7. Maine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riario mysteriously disappears, then just as mysteriously reappears to take Leo away to Maine. Riario reveals some of his dysfunctional relationship with his father.

Leo said it as a joke; “I can’t quit him. I’m addicted to Riario.” Zo didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. “Come on, Zo, what’s your problem? Obviously, it’s a joke. It’s not possible to be addicted to Riario. He’s not a controlled substance! Well, not that kind of controlled anyway.”

Zo didn’t take the bait, but kept a serious look on his face, one that Leo wasn’t sure he’d ever even seen before. Zo was never serious, was he?

“Leo, what is it going to take for you to realize that this guy is bad news?” Zo dropped his voice, deliberately pitching it below the noise of Vanessa and Nico cooking together in the kitchen. Well, Vanessa was cooking. She understood and accepted Leo’s vegetarianism, and was even capable of making a meal he could eat—no meat, but it still tasted good. When left to fend for himself, Leo tended to just eat breakfast cereal. But Nico and Zo claimed they “needed” meat or they didn’t feel fed, so tonight Nico was grilling sausages. The smell of onions and peppers wafted out, and the sizzle of the sausages was loud enough that the conversation in the living room felt private.

“Zo, don’t worry about it. He’s fine. I’m fine.” There was no way Leo was going to discuss his sex life with Zo. It was none of his business, after all. And it was fucking uncomfortable to boot.

Even Zo seemed uncomfortable, and that was something else Leo didn’t think he’d ever seen from his friend. “Look, I don’t care what you do in your private life, okay? I am not looking for details and I am not jealous or anything. I am your friend--hell, for all intents and purposes I am your brother. And I am saying this as your brother; Riario is dangerous. He is bad news, and I am worried about you.”

With a flip of his wrist, suddenly, Zo had hold of Leo’s cell phone, thumbing past the lock screen and pulling up the list of recent calls. “Have you noticed you are getting a lot of calls from an unknown number?”

Leo lunged across the sofa. “How did you get past my lock screen, you bastard? Give that back.”

Zo held the phone deliberately out of reach, while scrolling down the list. “I guarantee you that these are not all from Riario. In fact, I doubt that any of them are. Even if you haven’t put him into your contacts?” Zo leveled a penetrating gaze, as Leo attempted to look insulted. “You are screwing the man every chance you get, and you don’t have his number in your phone? Not even under a painfully obvious pseudonym like ‘Booty Call’? That does worry me.”

“Fuck you, Zo, and give me my phone back.”

Point made, Zo tossed the phone. “Look, if he made you happy, I wouldn’t say anything. But you don’t seem happy with him. And when he’s not here, you are practically wasting away waiting for him to show up. That’s not healthy, Leo, and you deserve better than that. That’s just Relationship 101, not even taking into account that this is __Riario__ we are talking about.”

Stubborn Leo came out—the lower lip went out, his body tensed, his mind started flicking rapidly to find the points where he could poke through the argument and prove Zo wrong. Zo was his friend—his oldest friend, in fact, but this was none of his business.

Zo saw the signs and recognized them. If Leo had ever been able to hear any of his concerns, that time had now passed. Now was time to back off and maybe—just maybe—a germ of what he had said would make it through those defenses.

Anyway, Vanessa was bringing a large casserole dish to the table, and Nico was literally waving around his plate of sausages. Dinner was going to intervene, and this conversation was mercifully over.

*****

Days passed, and Riario didn’t show up at the house. After last time Leo was reluctant to go find him at his apartment. That left office hours. Which weren’t ideal, but seemed to be the only option available to him. So he went, and lurked outside the locked office door, around the corner so he wouldn’t be seen. No one came.

It became a mission, to find Riario. He tried hacking some basic friend-finding software, tried to use location services and find-a-phone software. Nothing. He thought about social engineering, but realized he just didn’t know enough about Riario’s personal life to make any kind of educated guesses about his whereabouts. How could that be, he wondered, before realizing that they simply didn’t talk that much because their time together was overwhelmingly physical. In fact, Leo realized he didn’t know much about the man he knew so well naked.

Perhaps Zo had a point after all.

He contemplated breaking into the apartment, but there had been nothing at all to find the last time—if Riario intended to disappear, there would be even less now. That didn’t stop him from staking out the building for hours at a time—a euphemism for stalking, frankly.

There was no sign of Riario.

Vanessa noticed—Vanessa noticed lots of things that were inconvenient for Leo, but she was also both kind and discreet about it. He didn’t mind it as much as he thought he would, when she tapped on his door and edged into his bedroom.

“So, Leo, I’ve noticed Riario hasn’t been around for a while. Are you okay?”

What could he even say to that? Yes, but no? Of course I’m fine but I don’t know what has happened? He never even said goodbye; can you be broken up with if the other person just disappears?

Vanessa looked down at her fingers, and spoke softly, out of the corner of her mouth, as if speaking slantwise might soften the blow. “I have some friends are taking his class. He, um, he just didn’t show up one day, and had someone substitute for him in order give them a major research assignment. Nobody knows where he’s gone.” She looked up with her wry smile and rolled her eyes. “And believe me, there are quite a few girls who would like to know where he went. I haven’t bothered to tell them they are wasting their time.”

He was absurdly grateful for this.

“’Tall, dark, and dangerous’ is what they call him. They think he has repressed his sexuality, and you would not like to hear them talk about what they would do to release it. It’s embarrassingly misguided, but what do you expect from college girls? They can’t even imagine that they are out of the game here.” Her frank blue eyes looked into his face, scanning him for signs of how he was taking this.

He wasn’t sure how he was taking this, to be honest, and so he looked back at her to see if he could tell by her reaction. Again, he was oddly reassured when she walked across the carpet and ruffled his hair. “Stay strong, Leo. I don’t think this is about you, okay? Riario has his own demons he’s got to deal with.” She pressed a quick kiss to his temple. “I know we had our day, but I still care about you. Come talk to me if you want, okay?” And then she was gone.

*****

It was another five days before he got a text from an unknown number—a different one this time, one he hadn’t seen before. __I will bring my car around will you get in y/n?__ Leo did not hesitate, and he slid out of the house as quietly as possible—it was a ridiculous hour of the morning, but he’d been awake. He was always awake these days it seemed.

The car whispered up to the end of the drive, and he simply jumped in. Riario pulled away even as Leo was buckling in, headed away from the school, away from town, north and Leo didn’t even bother to ask any of the questions he should have, would have, if it hadn’t felt so good just to look at that patrician profile again.

Riario’s hair was longer, shaggy even, and the beard was noticeably fuller. His cheekbones were even more sharply cut into his face, and he looked road weary and haggard. And delicious. Leo realized he could taste how much he wanted to touch the body next to him. But for now, the buttery leather of the seats cradled him in their warmth, and the hum of the wheels on the road was hypnotizing. He found that he didn’t need to ask any questions, not yet anyway, when he could simply bask in the fact that Riario had come to him. He turned to face front, and without realizing it, slipped into sleep.

They were some hundred miles north of Cambridge when he woke up. Riario was sliding the car into a parking space in a small lot in front of a large Georgian house. Groggy from the deep sleep he’d been in, Leo couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening. The phrase “bed and breakfast” didn’t compute, but the conjunction of “bed” and “Riario” seemed like a good idea, so he followed the dark figure into the building and up to the third floor.

When the door closed, any intention Leo had of talking with Riario disappeared in the first kiss. He had missed this, this heated body pressing him against the wall, pushing him into the mattress, growling into the kisses as Leo opened his mouth to the probing tongue. He had missed the way his whirling brain slowed, how he was finally focused, concentrating on the feel of the hips grinding into his own, the long strong fingers gripping his jaw, his biceps, his hips, digging into his thighs, his buttocks, pulling and pressing and dominating him. He went limp, malleable under the touch he had missed so much.

*****

When he woke, Leo was disoriented—he had literally no recollection of this room at all. The bed was huge with a curved cherry headboard and deep aubergine duvet, plus more pillows than he had ever owned at one time. Probably more pillows than the entire house in Cambridge had. There was a white painted mantelpiece surrounding a sizable fireplace with a metal screen. The large painting over the fireplace looked like it was from the last half of the 20th century, although Leo couldn’t identify it any more precisely. It was what might have happened if Renoir had decided to paint koi instead of water lilies, using digital visualization tools. It wasn’t his style at all, but he didn’t object to it either.

The rest of the furniture was practical but unassuming—a sort of New England puritan sparseness overlaid with 21st century notions of luxury: a bottle of wine and two glasses sat on a tray on a burled walnut side table, candlestick lamps stood on single drawer nightstands on either side of the big bed. Plantation shutters barred the morning light that fell across the Berber rug.

It was disorienting, until he spotted his clothes, precisely folded and stacked on a side chair. That he recognized—that was Riario. The sketchy memory of last night flooded back, and he rolled over to find the other half of the bed empty. But Riario’s expensive scent still lingered on the sheets, on the pillow. Leo indulged himself for a few seconds, savoring the smell.

But the body had needs, so he climbed down out of the bed ( _ _yup, still naked, so that happened__ ), and fished his phone out from his jeans. It was late, well after 11 a.m., and he had a text from the same unknown number as last night.

__I let you sleep in. I will be back by 1. Shower if you want. There’s a bathrobe on the back of the door._ _

He took the few seconds to add this number to his contacts list under “Riario.” It felt as good as actually giving Zo the finger.

The en suite bathroom had a massive cabinet supporting a single sink, nestled next to a very modern tiled shower. A stack of thick towels sat on a shelf in arm’s reach of the tub. A single towel was draped over a drying rack, proof Riario had already showered before he left.

The water was hot and plentiful, raining gently from a fixture that towered over the tub. Instead of sample sized hotel-type products, though, Leo recognized the ones from Riario’s apartment. Using them again was still strange—Leo wasn’t used to that scent on himself, but he couldn’t complain about the quality. Of course, everything was noticeably more luxurious than the bargain drug store brands he was used to.

Once out of the shower, he was unwilling to climb back into his old, dirty clothes. Instead, he took Riario’s suggestion and wrapped himself in the bathrobe. Clean, and now feeling rather hungry, he picked up his phone again and pulled up the map application, clicking the location arrow to figure out where __exactly__ they were.

The map application zoomed into a tangle of streets that he did not recognize, so he used the “Directions” tab. “Fuck me, we’re in __Maine?__ ” While he didn’t mind crossing state lines to commit immoral acts with a mysterious dark-eyed man, it occurred to him that perhaps his housemates might worry. He considered, then abandoned the idea of a group message ( _ _screw you, Zo, it’s none of your business)__ , sending the briefest message to Vanessa. __Something came up, am taking a few days away. I’m fine. Back later.__ It wasn’t very revealing, but it would at least serve to let them know he was alive and hadn’t just disappeared.

He had just clicked “send” when he heard a key turn in the door, and Riario entered the room, carrying several bags, which he set on the table where Leo was sitting. “I realize you didn’t have time to pack,” he said, as he began to empty the bags. “I hope these will suffice.” He’d purchased new clothes and underwear, several sets. __I guess we’re here for a while.__ Another bag held toiletries—not quite the exquisite brands that Riario himself used (maybe those are hard to purchase in Maine?) but several standard deviations better than what Leo usually bought for himself.

“Good morning to you too, it’s good to see you again, how have you been the last several weeks, where the fuck have you been and why did you show up last night and why the _ _fuck__ are we in Maine?”

Riario turned away from the bags he was unpacking and looked directly at Leo, that wary smile of his animating his face. His eyes were dark and intense, huge in his pale face. It was the expression he wore when he was strategizing, and Leo could swear he could __see__ Riario thinking, analyzing all the different ways this conversation might play out.

“Do you have a problem with Maine?” It was a simple question; Leo couldn’t actually object to the tone even. It wasn’t a challenge, and it wasn’t an insult, but somehow it didn’t feel like merely a request for information either. It felt like a chess opening, maybe, or a deliberate poker play. Leo felt himself becoming defensive and angry.

“Maybe I do. Maybe I feel like I’ve been carted across state lines without my consent for immoral purposes by a guy who disappeared without a word and just showed up at a sketchy hour and drove me a hundred miles away and then disappeared again. Maybe ‘Maine’ is just shorthand for me feeling like you just drop in and out of my life and maybe I want a little more say in whatever this is going on between us! Is that so fucking surprising?”

Riario could not take his eyes away from the sight. God but the man was distracting, fiery and passionate and certainly naked under that dark robe. The robe was part of the problem, gaping open over his chest, casting shadows that highlighted and defined the muscles moving under his skin. The belt was only half knotted, and was sliding a little as Leo gesticulated, causing the bottom half to flash a length of lean thigh—Riario could see the swell and curve of the muscles. Even Leo’s face was flushed, his lower lip pushed out in that sulky pout that made Riario want to seal himself to that mouth, to bite and suck and frankly push the boy back onto the tumbled bed that hovered in the background like a temptation.

Yet a restless part of his brain was keeping track of Leo’s complaint—that part of his brain that never stopped evaluating, seeking vulnerabilities, constructing defenses. He had honed that talent his whole life, the art of mild diffusion, of quiet reserve. More than once, it had bought him time, allowed him to survive the conflict. So he stilled his body, drained the tension from his muscles, deliberately lowered his voice to a rough but carefully enunciated whisper.

“Are you unhappy being here?”

That raspy whisper did something to Leo’s blood; it sounded so similar to the way that voice murmured in his ear when they were both thick with desire. Dammit, he looked so louche, so boneless, lounging elegantly in that chair, one arm stretched along the back, his long legs crossed casually. He looked like an invitation to crawl into his lap, and Leo could not believe how much he wanted to accept that invitation.

_This is why we never actually talk._

“Yes! No! I’m not. . .happy isn’t really the issue here, Riario.” He rubbed his hands over his face, because it helped to not actually look at the man. When he looked, he saw lines and planes and muscles and skin, and it was a near thing whether he wanted to fuck the man or just draw him. But he was feeling unjustly treated as well, and the whole confusing soup of emotions was unfamiliar and upsetting in itself.

“What is the issue then, Leo?” Again, that husky whisper made everything he said sound provocative in Leo’s ears, and he could feel the blood start to run hot under his own skin. Dammit, talking to Riario was beginning to feel impossible. Maybe he should just turn his back and text the bastard, because this was not going anywhere. But oddly, the feeling of frustration was something Leo knew how to work with, so he held on to that and channeled it.

“You aren’t that dumb, Riario. If you don’t know what the issue is, you can fucking well guess. You disappeared. You literally dropped off the face of the earth for what—three weeks? Not a word, not a text, not a goodbye, nothing. Your classes were cancelled! You didn’t answer my texts, I had no idea if you were dead or alive. Then, without a word of explanation, you ask me to get in your car, and god help me, I did! I didn’t even ask any questions! I just trustingly climbed into your car and woke up two states away and I don’t understand what the hell is going on.”

Riario just sat as the words tumbled out of Leo’s mouth, his head slightly tilted back, his eyes heavy lidded, infuriatingly calm, frustratingly elegant. His oxford shirt was crisply pressed, buttoned to the neck, and he was wearing cuff links in the French cuffs—cuff links! That was the humiliating detail that Leo used to hone his anger. After all, here he was, with dirty and worn clothing his only option to the hotel bathrobe, while Riario was exquisitely turned out. As usual.

“So, I am asking again, where have you been, what is going on, and what the fuck are we doing in __Maine__?” There. That was clear and concise. Now the trick was going to be to sit still long enough to hear what Riario could possibly say for himself.

Patience wasn’t easy. Riario sat for a moment, his face animated by his thoughts as he considered his response. Leo nearly jumped into the silence, to accuse him of concocting a lie, but managed to hold his tongue. Barely. After what felt like a quarter of an hour, Riario uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward, hands clasped lightly between his knees.

“I don’t know if you know about my father.” Whatever Leo was expecting, it wasn’t this, that was for certain. Also, that husky edge was gone from Riario’s voice, which also helped. His voice was still soft, but smoother, bruised somehow. This was not the voice of a person who was in total control of his circumstances, this was also not the voice of seduction that Leo was powerless to resist. This was something else. He found himself nodding mutely, but then cleared his throat to answer.

“Yeah, we—I—know a little bit. Zo found out some stuff. We know he’s not a Riario, he’s got some company that works for the Defense Department. It’s maybe a bit shady, but it’s also pretty hush-hush for national security reasons.”

Riario looked up, surprised, and murmured “Zo found that out? How very—enterprising of him. I hadn’t expected he would be the one.” He settled back in the chair and launched what seemed like yet another non-sequitur. “When you came to my apartment, I was surprised. I had taken some pains to keep that address private. As you might have been able to tell, it is not __my__ apartment. Not exactly. My father’s company owns that particular unit, as well as others in most major cities in the world. They are kept so he and other executives have a base of operations wherever they travel. He has __graciously__ ,” that last word was spit out bitterly, “allowed me to live there as long as he didn’t need it. It’s no more a home than a hotel room would be, and I keep myself to as small a footprint there as possible.”

Leo was still nodding encouragingly. He had no idea where this was going, but it was clear to him that Riario was going to tell this in his own order. So he tightened the belt on the bathrobe and sat on the edge of the bed, prepared to be as patient as it was possible for him to be.

“Three weeks ago, more or less, my father summoned me to his home in Georgetown. He had found out about a promising grad student at Harvard, someone he thought might be induced to join the company. Someone who might be the particular mix of curious and amoral enough to be trained into the kind of private-sector foreign policy work that democracies can’t do openly. He wanted to know if I knew anything about this person, and if not, he wanted me to collect all the information I could, make contact if it seemed appropriate.” Riario was looking at his hands now, so Leo couldn’t read his eyes or his expression. Only that soft voice, so carefully modulated, which gave no clues as to what was going on in Riario’s head.

“Being subject to his commands is, well, it is the price he extracts for his generosity in allowing me to keep pursuing my degrees, to keep living in the apartment, to justify all the things he’s done for me all my life. Everything he does is one more hook set into my skin, and he pulls me in whenever he wants.” Riario lifted his head again, and looked straight at Leo. “It is the price he demands in return for not disowning me for my __unnatural proclivities__.”

There was sadness in the voice at that point, and challenge as well, as if he expected Leo to agree that homosexuality was something to be ashamed of. Instead, Leo wanted to object—who gets “disowned” in the twenty-first century? This felt like some unholy mix of blackmail and incest, and his instinctive desire to correct injustice was starting to assert itself. He could feel his heart rate speed up and bitterness twisting in his stomach.

But before he could formulate the words to express his outrage, Riario continued. “This is something he is very good at, my father is. This time, he had some additional advantages, as good as aces up his sleeve. First of all, he already knew that I knew the person he was describing, because I was the one who had put that person on his radar.” Again, he looked up, with a carefully composed face that hid everything and nothing. “Of course, it was you, Leo.”

This was not what he had expected at all, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t understanding it completely, which he hated most of all. There were subtexts, and hidden meanings, and coded relationships, and even if Riario thought he was being completely transparent, he was so immersed in his own assumptions, that Leo couldn’t tell which was clear signal and which was camouflaging noise.

“Wait—what do you mean, you put me on his radar? What do you mean I’m amoral?”

There was no need to answer that, so Riario didn’t. He just looked at Leo levelly, his eyes dark and hard under the fringe of his long bangs. Yeah, so he was right, Leo recognized it. It was the curse of his curiosity, of his need to understand and know things. If he was given a problem where the solution meant the certain deaths of hundreds—thousands—millions of people? He’d work on the problem with everything he had and not think about the consequences. He’d ruined Vanessa’s measuring cups, after all, for no good reason—that experiment hadn’t even turned out. If della Rovere was the kind of guy Zo claimed he was, then he could give Leo some abstract problem that would lead to new weapons systems, for instance, or an encryption problem that would result in cyberwar, or anything, really. Leo could think of lots of problems a multinational non-government para-military corporation could offer him to solve, and he knew that he would do it.

This was not a comfortable moment. Both the self-realization, and the recognition that Riario had already known this about him were making him very self-conscious. It wasn’t just the fact that he was only wearing a robe that made him feel naked.

Riario was also looking uncomfortable, and –was that a guilty expression on his face? It was new to Leo, whatever it was. “It’s my fault he even knows about you. Back when we first met, I ran some searches on you. Used some programs that my father uses to vet prospective hires. I believe it brought you to his attention. I am truly sorry that he knows about you. He is a very hard man to say ‘no’ to.” Riario swallowed, his face carefully composed, his eyes hard and unreadable.

“Anyway, we had some words. He gave me an ultimatum; I was either going to bring you to meet him, or he was coming up to meet you. So I cleared out of the apartment and left town so I wouldn’t run into him. I brought you with me so he can’t find you.” Riario swallowed, and his expression changed slightly. “Well, partly so he can’t find you. I didn’t get separate rooms for my own reasons.”

The whole story was more complicated than Leo had expected. Frankly, he’d expected a half-sincere “I got busy, I should have texted you” and then a handsy attempt at distraction. Instead, he’d gotten a hazy glimpse into Riario’s home life, some uncomfortable self-awareness, and an admission of being manipulated out of making his own decisions about a possible DRV job offer. Which was certainly presumptuous from a guy who hadn’t bothered to send a single text for three weeks. On the other hand, this was a guy who knew what DRV and della Rovere were capable of, so maybe he shouldn’t blow up at him as a first reaction.

The two of them sat in a lengthening silence; Riario simply waiting for Leo to respond, and Leo trying to figure out what his response was going to be. There was a lot to think about, that was for sure. So he decided to process the whole thing out loud.

“Okay, look, I’m not happy that you disappeared for almost a month without even saying anything.”

“It was twenty days.”

“It was a long fucking time to get nothing, not even a text saying ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’ You just disappeared, and I couldn’t tell if I should start combing hospitals and morgues, or if you’d just dumped me in the coldest way possible. So, yeah, I’m not happy and I don’t care how long it was __precisely__.”

Oh god, thought Riario, he’s going sulky on me. He is so fucking kissable when he’s like that. The robe was also continuing to prove distracting. It took some of his long cultivated iron self-discipline to keep still, to remain carefully attentive and neutral as Leo kept talking.

“So, minus ten points from Slytherin for Riario not telling anybody where he was going and when he would be back, understood? Don’t do that again. Break up with me, tell me to fuck off, whatever, but the silence is not okay. Okay?”

He couldn’t help it; a smile ghosted around his lips, but he kept his eyes serious as he acknowledged Leo’s demand. Damn but the man was almost __edible__. “I will not disappear again without letting you know. Acceptable.”

Leo shot him a disgusted look, but decided to consider this a win for himself. “Fine. Okay, next, I guess I’m flattered that you think I’m someone your dad’s company might be interested in.” Riario looked like he wanted to make a comment, but Leo held up a hand to forestall him. “I am being self-deprecating here to make a point. __Of course__ I’m brilliant enough for your dad’s fucking company, or anybody else’s really. But what’s more important is whether I __want__ to work for somebody like that, and that’s a decision that I get to make on my own. So ten more points from Slytherin for you trying to make that decision for me. No, better make that fifty points, because you are going to tell me that I don’t know the situation as well as you do, and that I should be grateful and that will just make me more mad, and so I’m just bypassing that entire conversation and deducting the full points you will lose by arguing with me.”

Riario made a mental note that this was not the final word on DRV’s interest in Leo, but he knew how to wait strategically. He simply nodded, and remained silent.

“And I should just go ahead with the whole hundred and fifty point deduction for stalking me and running sketchy background checks on me, so take that as read. Also, I’m being lenient because your dad sounds like a complete asshole, and we are going to have to talk about that some more in the future. But what I’m going to end with is the question that you still have not answered. What the __fuck__ are we doing in __Maine?__ ”

And there was the quicksilver grin, the flash of bright white teeth, signaling Leo had processed all his disclosures, but—perhaps he had some __aesthetic__ objection to Maine? “Well, it’s the opposite direction from my father, and frankly, I just wanted to get as far away from him as possible?”

Leo started to laugh. “But __Maine__? I’m sorry, Riario, but I am just failing to see you as an L.L. Bean kind of guy. Hip waders and lobster traps—are just not your attributes. I just cannot reconcile _you_ in __Maine.__ ”

*****

For dinner, they found a vegetarian Thai restaurant (“You see, Maine isn’t __entirely__ uncivilized, Leo”) and Leo waited until Riario was precisely manipulating curried vegetables with his chopsticks before Leo broached the subject on his mind. “So, not that I want to sound ungrateful or greedy or anything—thank you for the clothes, by the way—but I don’t understand. I mean, why can’t you just cut ties? Tell your dad to fuck off, don’t take his calls, don’t give him your new number, and just be done with him? He sounds like an asshole, and I can tell there’s a bunch of stuff you aren’t telling me, so he’s got to be even worse than that. Why stay?”

Riario didn’t sigh, didn’t roll his eyes, didn’t make any of the huffing sounds of being insulted that Leo knew he’d make if someone said the same things to him. Instead, in what was becoming obvious as “typical Riario fashion” he simply set down his chopsticks and withdrew into himself. He then turned his eyes ( _ _slowly, deliberately__ ) Leo’s direction and thinned his lips. It was a considering look, as if he was weighing how much to say and how to say it. It animated the carved lines of his face, and impossibly drew even more focus to himself; Leo wondered if it was a conscious way of dominating a conversation, a room, hell the whole university seemed sometimes to be watching Riario.

For his part, Riario wasn’t sure if he could explain it to someone with Leo’s history. Functionally abandoned by his parents, sent off to boarding school at the earliest possible age, Leo had grown up without the thousands of tiny interactions that were set around Riario like tiny wires. The myriad kindnesses and cruelties that bound him to his father; the obligation that had been bred into his bones. All his life, he’d been groomed into understanding that certain world views, certain expectations, certain understandings were what constituted “normal” life: normal for him was a kind of useful bondage to a man he both hated and feared to disappoint. How could you explain a lifetime of the constant, cumulative, and corrosive violence a man like della Rovere could use to mold an obedient son, and how nearly impossible it was to escape that training?

Typically, Leo kept talking while scooping brown rice like a starving man. “I mean, you’re obviously a brilliant guy, and you can’t need the money. I mean, sure, I know a grad student stipend isn’t all that much but. . .”

“Stop talking before you insult me.” Riario’s voice was low and cold, and it did stop Leo’s mouth instantly. He even stopped eating for a few seconds, obviously re-running his most recent comments in his head to find what he had said to upset his companion. “It is not a question of whether I am bought and paid for. It is far more insidious than that, and that is why I am trying to prevent him from getting his talons into you as well.” Riario folded his hands in his lap, still as carved stone, his marble white skin flashing stark against his dark hair and eyes. “He is extremely clever, he is entirely without principles, and not only is he capable of thinking several moves ahead, he is also extremely well-counseled, with the most clever and ruthless lawyers and bankers at his disposal. He is subtle and patient, but he will have you tied up and legally bound, before you even realize that there was any trap at all.”

It was going to take more than generalities to convince Leo, Riario could tell. He was just so cocky, so sure he was the smartest person in any room—and he was truly gifted, but he was as naïve as Nico when it came to the kind of tactics della Rovere had at his fingertips. “Perhaps I can show you what I mean. My mother was herself from a well-to-do family. Not the kind of wealth that you might have heard of, but there was a very nice trust that was established for me. One that would allow me to be independent my entire life. She wanted me to have the choice to be whatever I wanted to be in life, not to be coerced into working for my father if I didn’t want to. However, my mother died while I was still underage, and my father managed to have some influence on the terms of the trust.”

“He raided your trust fund,” Leo guessed. “He got himself named executor and he went in and took all the money your mother left you.”

A flicker of pain passed over Riario’s face. “Nothing so crude. No, he is not on the trust at all. There is no direct link to him. But now the trust is revocable. Through a series of essentially shell trustees, he has the ability to reassign the assets, or even change the beneficiary. At least, that is what he has told me, and I have not been able to ever actually get my hands on the trust documents to have them vetted independently.”

Leo goggled. “So, he told you that you have a trust, but that he can take it away? Whenever he feels like it?”

“He also implied that my. . .moral turpitude. . .could affect disbursements. He declined to specify what he understood that to mean. It could mean a failure of obedience as far as I know.”

Leo got excited, his knee started to bounce, causing the table to flex and the liquid in their drinks to shiver slightly. “You have to get those documents, Riario! I bet we could find a law student who would file an action and you could demand the documents from him. . .”

Riario held up his hand and again Leo fell silent. “There is no guarantee that any documents we received from him would be the authentic ones. Certain. . . emendations, shall we say?. . .may have been introduced.” He pushed his plate away, talk of his family was an effective appetite suppressant. “In any event, I have no choice but to deal with him. You do. Except that I have apparently taken that choice away from you.”

There was no actual threat in his words, but the way they slid along his voice, Leo felt that it would be dangerous for him to object to Riario’s high-handed ways. He could even kind of understand why Riario had done it. He could afford to be conciliatory; Riario was buying dinner. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s not an issue as long as we are still up here in fucking Maine.”

*****

It was still dark when Riario opened his eyes; his phone said 5:35, so it was still early. Leo’s body radiated heat as it curled around his own, one leg crooked over his thighs, an arm resting across Riario’s waist, Leo’s quiet breathing against Riario’s neck. He was heavy with sleep, and barely stirred as Riario slid out of the bed. The sheets were completely tangled, and the decorative pillows were scattered around the floor of the room.

Padding quietly into the bathroom, Riario could feel twinges that were revealed to be bite marks. Nothing that couldn’t be covered by a t-shirt. He was sure Leo had a collection of his own. The night had been fierce, perhaps a little violent, as Leo decided to assert himself. However, he hadn’t been paying attention as assiduously as Riario had, and it turned out that Riario was able to dominate his lover with a few well-placed kisses and just the right pressure of long fingers on sensitive skin.

The proof seemed to be in the fact that Leo was still asleep, sheets tangled across his naked hips. Riario dressed silently and eased out of the room to run miles of road. Indulgence would have to be balanced by training.

He returned in time to shower and change and still make the communal breakfast. It was Sunday, and there were several other guests in the inn. One chair sat conspicuously empty; Leo was still asleep. The innkeeper commented. “Will we see your companion this morning?” There was a sly and bitter undertone to the question. Riario found himself rising to the bait.

“I believe he is not much of a breakfast person. And please, don’t bother to make up the room today. We would prefer not to be disturbed.”

Leo was warm and blurry from sleep when he returned, face soft and unfocused, and Riario could not resist. Chose not to resist. Leo’s languid response did a great deal to erase the image of the innkeeper’s distain from his mind’s eye.

*****

After three days, Leo had caught up on the sleep he had skipped while Riario was missing, and now he was bored. While he didn’t ( _ _not strictly__ ) regret walking out of his life and into Riario’s car, he did wish he’d been able to bring something to work on. He didn’t even have a laptop, and it was hard to read articles on the small screen of his old phone.

He found himself pacing the length of the room, picking up one of Riario’s books—something called __Istorie Florentine__ —then dropping it. “It’s not even in English. I’m bored. I need something to do!”

Riario looked up from the book he was reading, also something in Italian, and eyed the irritated Leo. “What do you suggest?”

“I could go downstairs to the kitchen, borrow some stuff, bring it back here. I have some ideas. . . .”

“There is no possible end of that sentence that is reasonable, Leo. Try again.”

Leo growled, putting his hands up to pull at his hair. “I don’t know! I have so much unfinished at home, but I don’t have my materials, I don’t even have my notebooks. I’d need to start something new, but I don’t have anywhere to set up any kind of experiments. I can’t read articles because I don’t have any way to take notes and this screen is worthless to render graphs.” He shook his phone at Riario. “You couldn’t have warned me, suggested that I grab my laptop at least?”

Which is how they ended up at an art supply store purchasing a selection of sketchbooks, technical journals, charcoal, pens, and pencils. They had argued about what Leo claimed he needed, certain art supplies that Riario deemed “too messy.” “I refuse to allow any of that in the same room where I keep my clothing.” And since he was paying for it all (Leo hadn’t brought money either), he enforced the veto. There were no paints, no bottles of ink, nothing that could spill or stain. However, the paper was all excellent quality, he’d allowed Leo to gather a range of graphite drawing pencils, soft thick sticks of charcoal and white highlighter, super-fine point pens. Leo spent the rest of the evening happily arranging and testing each of the purchases.

The next morning, Riario woke at his usual early hour, to see a figure tucked up in a chair at the head of the bed, his eyes burning brightly as he looked—intensely looked—at Riario.

Riario felt his heart beat speed up, the poisonous feeling of adrenaline flooding his body. Fight, flight, or freeze are the choices the body has, and the flood of panicked sensation ( _ _we are in danger, we are being seen, the watcher is the enemy__ ) overwhelmed the dim voice of his rational self that was parsing the situation ( _ _we know this person, we are not in danger, we should not strike out and we don’t need to flee__ ).

Before he consciously realized what was happening, he was out from the covers, crouched in a defensive posture on the bed, scanning the room for weapons—either ones that could be used against him, or ones he could use himself. Meanwhile, he was automatically processing points of vulnerability of his opponent. Legs tucked up like that kept vulnerable joints inaccessible and thus protected, but also slowed the opponent’s ability to move away, providing what could be precious seconds of immobility.

In only seconds, Riario had one hand wrapped around Leo’s throat, the other gripping a pen, poised to be plunged in a vulnerable spot. Only then did Leo’s eyes, large and wary, finally recall him to sanity. Confused, he lowered his hands, dropped the pen, stepped backwards.

“God __damn__ it, Riario! What the __fuck__ were you doing?” Leo didn’t sound frightened, or even traumatized, which Riario only dimly recognized. “Is that why you live alone—because you’ve killed everybody you’ve ever slept with? That is a fucking __extreme__ response to being woken up.”

Vaguely, Leo realized these words echoed something Zo had said, about being unable to find any of Riario’s previous relationships. “He might have them killed, Leo.” Maybe this wasn’t a joke.

Riario had stepped away, but was still within arm’s reach, blinking slowly as if trying to sort reality from dreams. He had no idea how long it took before he had realized that the “threat” was only Leo, Leo with a notebook ( _ _Leo always has a notebook__ ) in his lap and a length of charcoal in his hand.

“I. . . I. . .I have no words.” He passed a hand over his face, and Leo could see that his features were weirdly fixed. There was no sign of the animation that he associated with Riario calculating his options; the man was legitimately frozen in place.

Leo did not want to think about why Riario had this particular automatic response to someone watching him sleep. Instead he tried for lightness, something to bring Riario back to normalcy and anchor him there. “I couldn’t sleep, so I made sketches. You don’t move much when you sleep, did you know that?” ( _ _There was probably a reason for that, don’t think about it.__ ) “Anyway, I did some studies, I’ll show you if you want to see.”

The flow of words, confident, quiet, ran over Riario’s frozen thoughts and gently thawed them, freeing them. This was only Leo, a man he’d dominated, a man he’d stripped, a man who had lain in his bed, vulnerable and naked. There was no threat, there was no need for weapons.

“It works out for me, though, because it’s like a live drawing class, but I can do different studies, like this one, where you were facing away from me, but I could do your back, and then also your hands.” Leo kept the words coming. They were nonsense, of course, but meaning was less important than the sounds, constant and non-threatening. He could see Riario coming back to himself, less an instinctual assassin, more the careful intellectual Leo recognized.

With a deep breath, Riario looked directly at Leo with recognition in his eyes. His hair was ruffled from sleep, hanging in his eyes, and he pushed it away with a quick, irritated gesture. “I owe you an apology. I don’t know what. . .I must have been having disturbing dreams.”

_Of course you were._

*****

“I don’t care what you do,” the innkeeper said, with a horrible grimace that failed to pass for a smile, “but if you are not coming to breakfast, I end up with perishable ingredients going to waste.” It was the tone as much as the words, and the way the innkeeper loomed over him as he ate. In response, Riario became more precise, more delicate in his gestures as he spooned up the merely adequate fruit salad. If Leo were here, he would take a rash stand: loudly refuse all breakfast, on principle. Riario had a subtler way, so he modulated his voice to the approximation of concern.

“That is distressing. Perhaps we could accommodate your difficulty—would you prefer us to make our own breakfast? That way you would not need to concern yourself about the timing or the fate of your ingredients.”

Riario turned his eyes, huge now in his white face, his expression carefully mild. The engine of a threat hummed under the words, but quietly, almost inaudibly. Had the innkeeper been a more observant man, he would have heard the fury beneath the mildness. If he had been a more observant man, he would not have been the fool that he was.

Instead, he seemed inflate even larger, filling the room with his presence, communicating a type of panic that he attempted to hide with bluster. “No, no, we can’t have that! I have sanitation to consider! The kitchen requires a very thorough cleaning even when I use it. I couldn’t be sure any mess you make is properly disinfected!” There was a snide emphasis on that last word, and Riario went even more still, as the familiar acrid taste of fury filled his mouth. He swallowed, hard, then stood up, fastidiously refolding his napkin and placing it beside the plate.

“Perhaps it would be best, then, if we agreed to forgo the breakfast altogether. I cannot guarantee that my. . . _ _companion__. . .will adhere to any schedule I could propose. As we are the only customers at present, that should be acceptable for you.”

Leo was stepping into the shower when Riario returned. With a blur of fury, Riario stripped as well, dropped his elegant black shirt and jeans to the floor, and pushed into the stall. Leo found himself shoved against the tile, Riario’s hands like fists on his skin, his mouth bruising and hard. Kisses and bites, both at once, and Leo didn’t object to the roughness __per se__ , but this was unexpected. “What happened?”

He ended up holding Riario, who was shaking and silent, as the water ran and ran.

*****

It was Leo who threw everything into bags and took it all out to the car, and then confronted the innkeeper. He returned with a refund for their unused days, in cash. It was Leo who located an inexpensive motel on the highway just outside city limits. He would even have been the one to drive them there, but Riario was firm about that. Leo was willing to accede, because it brought Riario back from wherever he was.

Of course, Riario wouldn’t talk about it. He simply radiated a cold fury. So Leo found a place that sold burritos and would even make them vegetarian, as well as a place to buy cheap beer and a couple bottles of indifferent wine. He carried them on foot back to the hotel room and went about putting some nourishment into Riario.

When he finally began to talk, once again it was a topic Leo had not expected. It was not about whatever had happened at the inn. Instead, the topic was money. How much did they have? How could they get more? And how to do that without alerting della Rovere of their location.

“Fuck, Riario, you actually think he’s going to trace you through your credit card? Why would he do that?”

Riario turned his eyes to Leo, then looked away. He swallowed, opened his mouth to say something, then didn’t. This restlessness fascinated Leo, how Riario rarely settled into one expression—but now it seemed disturbing, as though he’d been forced to learn it in order to protect himself.

When he finally did speak, it was in a husky whisper that was only just audible. “He has done it before. He does not care to be. . .thwarted.” He closed his eyes, a ghost of past pain crossed his face, but then he opened his eyes and straightened himself. “It is a matter of. . .outwaiting him. It is rarely very long; he has many things demanding his attention. In a few days, he will be absorbed in some other crisis, and he will give up this one.”

Leo just stared. This was entirely foreign to him as a way of living, and it offended him. “Look, Riario, if you are that scared of your father, you can not go back to that apartment. Is that why we are in fucking Maine? You are hiding from your father?” He thought for a moment, and added “You are hiding __me__ from your father? Oh, that is seriously fucked up.”

Riario did not answer, did not look either at Leo or away. His gaze was resolutely interior, as though he was reading something only he could see. Leo felt it as a dismissal, and it made him more angry than before. It was infuriating, how della Rovere was looming over them, omnipresent and threatening, invading their space even by being absent. “Fuck it, Riario, you can’t go back, you should just come move in with me.”

Even as he said this, a small voice in the depths of his head warned, “This is a terrible idea. This will never work.” Meanwhile, a louder, bossier voice was chattering away, “Vanessa has practically moved Julian into the house, why shouldn’t I do the same? This makes sense; we’ve been practically living together the last few days, what could go wrong?”

Whatever the merits of the idea, it had one advantage already; the mirthless smile playing around Riario’s lips. For a moment, he looked almost his usual self. “Your friends don’t care for me, Leo. It would be a disaster.” And he was right, of course, Zo hated him, and Nico was wary. Vanessa, however. . .so he threw her in to the conversation to see what happened. “Vanessa doesn’t hate you.”

Riario nearly laughed at this. “No, Vanessa doesn’t hate me. Yet. But Nico and Zo, they won’t want me there.”

Leo wanted to protest, actually opened his mouth to make a reflexive denial, but couldn’t find the words. Okay, maybe “hate” was too strong to describe what Nico felt, but it was pretty accurate for Zo. Riario’s presence had already changed things in the house; the end of poker nights was only the most obvious. Riario smiled again, that same smile that meant “Now you see the unpleasant truth too.”


	8. Leaving Maine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riario and Leo spend time together. Mostly fluff, I guess? They leave Maine and return to Cambridge.

“So, what are we going to do?” Leo had devoured his own burrito, and now was chasing down the stray grains of rice. “How long do you think we need to hide anyway?”

Riario considered, turning his eyes up as he chewed slowly. “I think my father will not be able to stay away from his business interests for more than a week. He should leave Cambridge in another three days.” He paused, and Leo could see the thoughts flitting like shadows across his face. “Yes, three more days, and then we can return to Cambridge.”

The news hit him oddly, and Leo found himself divided. The present was patently unsustainable; and it wasn’t just a matter of money. He had projects and plans he wanted to get back to. He had his friends. He had his own clothes, his own bed, his own familiar surroundings.

This motel was at best generic; the sheets were clean, if not precisely soft, the décor was at least not eye gougingly bad, although the wall art offended Leo’s taste. Faux watercolor prints of rustic wheelbarrows full of flowers parked next to attractively weathered doorways: it smacked of kitsch. While Riario never complained, it bothered Leo to see him in such graceless surroundings. So it wasn’t that Leo wanted to stay here any longer than three more days. In some ways, three days felt nearly unbearable.

Yet the future was also murky. Something had to change, that was clear. Riario couldn’t continue to be subject to his father’s whims. But maybe that meant that Riario would just disappear again, and Leo would have nothing left. Three days seemed an impossibly short time.

So he drew. He filled pages and pages of the newly acquired sketchbooks with Riario from every angle, in every light. His boredom was burned away by the intensity of looking, of seeing as much as he could and then fixing that vision to the page.

At first, this made Riario deeply uncomfortable. The first time he looked up from his reading (Italian history of the Quattrocento) and saw Leo’s fierce concentration, he shifted uncomfortably, then gave a small mocking laugh. “I am not posing for you, Leo.”

Hands flying, eyes burning bright, Leo could scarcely be bothered to reply. “No, don’t want posing. Just do what you are doing.” He was drawing that mouth, filling the spread pages with quick lines, trying to capture each specific expression before it fled, returning to fill in a few more lines when he saw that same shape flicker across Riario’s lips. Or eyes—the eyes remained especially difficult. He could fill in the bone structure, the shape of the nose, but the expressions didn’t last.

For his part, Riario couldn’t read. He was too aware of being looked at, considered, stripped by Leo’s gaze. Not just his clothing, although there are moments when he felt he might as well be nude as Leo drew his torso, thighs, shoulders; but as though even his skin had been flayed, revealing the lines of muscles and tendons. It was mentally destabilizing, to be sitting in a generic motel room, ostensibly reading about the intellectual history of the Renaissance, while feeling all but dissected, clothing and skin and muscles and bones laid out beneath the intense gaze of a madman. Because what was Leo but mad, with this singular obsessive focus.

Eventually, however, he became used to it. In part, it was the physical impossibility of remaining eternally tensed. Eventually, the adrenaline ebbed; his body simply could not remain on alert for as many hours as Leo could draw. His tendons relaxed, his muscles rested. It was not trust, not yet, so much as exhaustion. Even his internal mental dialog ran down; “someone is looking, someone is watching” turned into “Leo is looking, Leo is watching” which was less disturbing. At some point, even that faded to a background white noise. “Leo is still looking;” there was something comforting about that.

It didn’t mean he enjoyed it, however. Merely that he didn’t object to it, at least after the first twenty-four hours. “I am not posing for you, artista,” he said, a dozen different ways. “Artista” fit, somehow, as anachronistic as it was. The word purred along his tongue, louche and sensual. The shape of the word “Artista” in his mouth felt like Leo’s body in his hands, like a tool of seduction and domination.

Leo shivered a bit the first time he heard it, what felt like a term of endearment. The sound of it caressing, caused his blood suddenly to run hot under his own skin, desire gently thrumming at the sound. With that word thrilling along his nerves, he no longer wanted to draw. Instead, he was acutely aware of how the bed dominated the small room; how sketching Riario was a form of being seduced by Riario, the intimacy of gazing at that body in such detail. They had three days, and drawing could wait.

So he walked over to Riario, who was resolutely ignoring him, determinedly focused on his book. Leo stood over him (another angle he hadn’t thought of drawing before), looking down at the tousled black hair, before laying his fingers along the jaw and tipping the head up, brushing his lips across Riario’s softly. A question; an invitation. 

Riario kept his head tipped back, holding his finger as a place marker in his book, allowing himself to be kissed, feeling the delicate hint of Leo’s tongue against his lips. This was also new. This was not the fierce demand for touch their bodies usually craved. This itself was a new angle, a new form to explore.

“I am not your object, artista,” Riario whispered into his mouth. In saying it, the statement became untrue.

*****

While he slept, Riario was so still, Leo could finally map the proportions of his face, the ratio of cheekbone to eyebrow, the precise shadowing of the hollows that ran like focus lines to his mouth, the contrast of dark beard to soft lips. But still like that, unmoving, it was apparent that it was the force of his personality that made him so compelling to draw. It was a perfect paradox, and unable to solve it in his current state of mild mania, Leo instead turned to drawing Riario’s body—lean and muscular, the length of thigh, the modeled abdomen, the divots at the base of the spine above the curved buttocks, the line that descended from his navel, the way he slept with one bare leg crooked outside the tangle of bed sheets, the fall of hair across his eyes. With his charcoal Leo traced the lines his hands had just finished sweeping, discovering and mapping, but still unable to own the essence he tried to capture.

This went on for hours, because Leo wouldn’t sleep until his body gave out. When his fingers finally turned numb, regardless of the hour, he tumbled onto the bed, drawing pad and pencils lay where they fell. Whenever Leo finally slept, the atmosphere in the room became less charged, and Riario realized his skin felt slightly cooler without Leo’s heated gaze. He missed it, that fevered attention; it had already changed him.

*****

Leo didn’t ask what arcane signs (three days? Or were there additional things necessary? Did this happen on day four maybe?) aligned to convince Riario that it was safe to go back to Cambridge. Riario didn’t offer to explain either. Instead Leo surfaced from sleep to find Riario returned from his god-awfully early morning run and already showered, a towel wrapped around his hips as he stepped over to the closet.

Leo put out a hand to snag the edge of the towel. “Don’t get dressed. Come back to bed” he drawled, sleep slowing his speech. Vaguely, he hoped to drag Riario back into bed, but he would consider it a victory to just pull the towel off entirely. He was disappointed on both counts. Riario kept one hand at his own waist and managed to sidestep Leo’s clumsy grasp.

“We can head back. Events have . . .intervened. My father is no longer in Cambridge and there are other matters that will require his attention for some time.” He opened the closet and pulled out black jeans and a dark gray oxford. Leo rolled to his side and propped his head up on one hand, watching as the jeans slid up Riario’s long thighs. “I anticipate that he will delegate this project to someone else, so don’t think he has forgotten about you.” The shirt was tucked into the jeans with military precision. “He has, however, decided to forget about me for the moment.”

He closed the closet door, carefully cuffed the sleeves over his forearms, and stepped back toward the sink to sort through toiletries, placing the items into a leather kit. Just seeing those deft fingers, long and articulate, moving in that precise way raised a physical craving for them against his skin, and Leo groaned as he let his head fall back onto the pillow.

This seemed to amuse Riario, judging from the lightning smile that crossed his face. The heavy fringe of his bangs shadowed his eyes, making them appear even darker. They looked as black, Leo realized, as when his pupils were dilated with desire. Maybe it was only a trick of the light, but it was having a distinct effect on his own body. That damned smile was flickering across those lips, pale and smooth against the dark line of his beard. After six days of being barely more than arms’ length from him, Leo was still fixated, unsatiated. A small rumble came from his throat, a pleading sound of longing, a wordless request for Riario to come back to bed, to cage Leo beneath his lean body.

Somehow, Riario’s eyes went even darker and the smile sharpened. The tip of his tongue came out to the corner of his mouth, and Leo went boneless. He could feel every fold and crease of the sheets against his naked skin, and he wanted—oh, he wanted—Riario pushing him down, pulsing electric along his thighs, hot hands on his neck, his chest, the contact high of being bedded by Riario. Six days of being in fucking Maine with Riario, and he hadn’t brought any drugs with him, hadn’t gone looking either, because fucking Riario is keeping him together and exhausted in a way that stilled both his mind and his body. And he wanted another hit, now now now.

Deliberately, Riario turned back to his task, neatly slotting items into their place in his bag, and Leo mewled his disappointment. 

That sound did something inside Riario; he could feel himself turn darker and more dangerous, as a rush of adrenaline responded to Leo’s voice. It felt luxurious, exquisite, the way Leo demonstrated his submission. He had groomed himself into accepting Riario’s domination, to the point where Riario didn’t even have to tell him to wait, to wait—the anticipation had become part of the seduction. For both of them.

So Riario allowed himself the luxury of indecision, the indulgence of leisurely consideration. Six days of togetherness, of enthusiastic and frequent sex, had taken the edge off the frantic physical craving; satiated him—enough—that he could now pause, deliberately choose what to do. 

And yet, it had also trained his body in response.

It gave him a bone-deep satisfaction to see the manic Leo da Vinci go blurry and still, the brilliant mind no longer churning and sparking, his eyelids heavy and half lowered over unfocussed hazel eyes. Leo at the mercy of his long fingers, the way Riario could elicit moans with his bites and kisses, bruising Leo’s skin and watching the muscles flex in his lean flanks as his face went slack with desire and release, mouth gasping and open. 

This was something new—making Leo wait. Saying no to his own desire as well, tasting a new type of power over his lover, one that tested his self control. He could feel desire crawling down his sinews, stretching his nerves almost to snapping. But not. . .quite. If he accepted Leo’s invitation (his demand), if he crawled his way up Leo’s sleep warm body, inhaled the heady scent of desire that came off his skin like a drug, licked his way across the planes and curves of his lover. . .well, they would certainly not leave today. And it would be satisfying in the way abundance is satisfying.

But to force himself—both of them—to wait? To resist the temptation, only for now, to test his ability to wait just another hour, just one more minute, even another second as his own body trembled at the proximity of what it so craved? What they both craved? This was new, and Riario could already feel a sharper erotic charge between them. Impossibly, it seemed he was even more aware of Leo’s presence, Leo’s body, Leo’s desire, while they remained close and not touching. The game was in how long they could both wait. The further paradox was that by losing the battle, they would win it.

The clinking of the bottles stopped, and Leo risked a glance. Riario was standing still, looking in his direction but eyes unfocused, dark as desire. The flickers of expression crossing his face: Leo was beginning to be able to read them, and he could tell Riario was thinking about the two of them, deciding what he would do, what he would make Leo do. It excited him, and he could feel the shivers dance down his body under Riario’s consideration. Even like this, not actually touching, he felt the force of Riario’s will and he stilled himself, lay as complaisant and patient as he could be. Although there were some physical reactions he had no control over. At least the sheets are providing him some modesty. The situation felt balanced on a tipping point: would Riario set aside his agenda for the day and remain, just a little longer, in this cocoon they built against the world? Leo didn’t know, couldn’t guess, but he might be able to place a little weight on one side of the scales. So he stretched languidly, making small, soft sounds in his throat. 

It worked; except it didn’t. Riario’s gaze snapped back into focus, and he looked at Leo. There was a new expression on his face, one Leo didn’t recognize and could not read. Those eyes were still black, Leo knew desire when he saw it. There was an added tension in that body, like a black leopard coiled to pounce and yet pausing, not yet striking the prey. Leo felt anticipation like a cloud fill the room, and he understood the game that Riario had suddenly constructed between them. The game of anticipation.

With a deliberate groan, Leo sat up, and headed for the shower.

He made plans while the hot water coursed over his momentarily neglected body. If Zoroaster had been there, they would have made a formal bet, another in the long list of parlays and side flutters of their friendship. Since he wasn’t there (and Leo didn’t actually wish him present) the bet was mostly symbolic: he would try to get Riario to stop the car before they crossed the border into Massachusetts. The stakes were intentionally equitable: the loser had to make out with Riario in the front seat. The winner got to.

The advantage to this particular bet was that he could win, while raising the stakes in the game Riario was playing with him; just how high could he ratchet the tension between them before Riario broke? And what would that breaking look like? More importantly, just how good would it feel?

So it was with malice aforethought that Leo got into the front seat of Riario’s car wearing his shirt deliberately unbuttoned, commando under his jeans. As the car nosed south, he took control of the satellite radio. Which was less than ideal: he would have preferred a carefully curated playlist of the slowest jams with the filthiest lyrics he could find. That would be a project for some other boring time when Riario was not around, when he wasn’t overwhelming Leo’s senses with his scent of wealth and desire. However, there was bound to be some vein that could be profitably mined; classic R&B, or a 90s station. Worst case scenario would be some EDM, something with a steady and slow beat. He found a likely candidate, then sat back and waited to see how Riario reacted.

Of course being Leo, he could only wait so long before he was bored, so he pulled out his phone and plugged it into the charger, surprised to see a flood of calls and texts from an unknown number. The same number, over and over again. There were a few from Vanessa, which he read. She had gotten his first text, but was worried not to have heard from him again. Also, she was getting calls and texts from the same unknown number. Leo scrolled through his notifications—Nico was getting them too. . .and Zo. . . .

“Do you know anything about this?” Leo waved his phone at Riario, who did not take his eyes off the road, but just lifted an eyebrow.

“Know about what?”

“These calls! These texts! There are literally dozens of them.” He tried to find only ones from his housemates, small islands awash in a near Biblical flood of the unknown number. 

“Ah, yes. I suspect that is my father’s doing. It won’t be his actual number of course. He most certainly delegated that to an assistant.” Riario had the decency to look embarrassed. “I recommend you label that number as ‘Do Not Answer.’ I have several of those as well.”

It was a decent suggestion. Leo was tempted to block it as well, but perhaps this would be useful information to have at some point; especially if DRV was going to continue to be interested in him. So he created a contact he decided to call “NOPE.”

“So, you live with this kind of thing all the time? This is your life with your father?”

Riario kept his eyes straight ahead, but Leo could still see him start a sentence, then visibly swallow it back. “He is. . .intense. He is a man with a great deal of power, and power offers opportunities. He does not like to miss opportunities that might provide him with even more power.” Riario swallowed again. “As I said, he is very difficult to say ‘no’ to.”

It was the swallow that did it to Leo, because it was the combination of “powerfully sexy” and “heartbreakingly vulnerable” that made Riario such a drug for him. A drug he would not wait any longer to consume. “Pull the car over, Riario. Pull off here and just stop.”

They were still more than fifty miles from the border. Leo counted it as a win.

*****

The argument started as they crossed the outer suburbs of Boston. It wasn’t clear what started it, but it was certainly related to Leo’s assumption that Riario was going to come home with him. 

“I thought we agreed. For fuck’s sake, Riario, you can not go back to that apartment. It’s practically tainted.”

Riario’s face remained still as marble, his voice remained soft and silky. Perhaps it was an exaggeration to call it an “argument” since Riario neither raised his voice nor specifically contradicted Leo’s claims. “Nevertheless, Leo, it is where I live. There is no risk that my father will return in the near future, so there is no reason not to go back.”

The powerful hum of the engine throbbed in Leo’s skin, no longer lazily soothing, but irritating in a way specific to his mounting sense of being thwarted. “Damn it, Riario, are you just going to, what—drop me off and drive away? Back to that place? Seriously? Just drop back in like everything is still normal, like you didn’t just run away to fucking Maine? Like your life isn’t completely fucked up, and mine with it?”

Leo watched Riario’s face carefully, to see if this shot hit home. Certainly, Riario’s face flickered as he considered the implications. At least the bastard was taking his time, that counted for something, Leo decided. At least he wasn’t being palmed off with some sort of glib excuse. The lassitude, the feeling of release he’d gotten from their earlier wayside stop had well and truly worn off, and part of him wanted to win this argument just to salve his competitive drive. Partly he felt a physical need to have Riario naked against him again and he decidedly did not want to be left behind as Riario drove off to that hateful place.

Riario’s words were, as always, carefully chosen and softly articulated. “I was not aware that my living situation was implicated in the effect I have had on your life.” 

Leo ground his teeth and his hand flashed out to grab Riario’s thigh, his fingers dug into the muscle. I hope I leave a bruise, he thought, but the words he forced out were equal parts craving and fury. “You have fucking upended my life, Riario. My life, you bastard, and you do not get to treat me like some fucking rent boy you drop when you are bored.”

“My apologies, artisa, for creating any chaos in your previously well-ordered existence.”

The car continued to purr along, the miles eaten up as Leo simmered in his anger. Riario was so bloody infuriating, he just swallowed the accusations, refused to rise to the bait, denying him the satisfaction that a really epic fight could provide. It was like the man was Kevlar, and nothing pierced the smooth surface of his self-possession. Suave and calm, which just made Leo’s blood run hotter and made him want to puncture that self-possession, to elicit some heated response, to have a fight, dammit.

“It’s more than chaos, you asshole, or at least that’s what you’ve been telling me. It’s why you dragged me up to godforsaken Maine, so I wouldn’t end up in some Faustian bargain where I sold my soul for knowledge or something. But hey, it’s not a problem for you to take any of his perks, because he’s not that bad. Okay, so if he’s not that bad, so why did I just waste a week hiding from this not-at-all-scary guy?” 

Not as pointed as he’d wanted—if that speech had been an arrow, it would have failed to stick in the target. It certainly bounced off Riario’s sang-froid.

“I have no choice, Leo. I am his son. He has trained me my entire life to be obedient. Small as they are, my rebellions feel significant to me. I was hoping to spare you that particular hell.” They were on local streets now, and Leo could feel the smooth play of Riario’s thigh muscles as he moved his foot between accelerator and brake. They were approaching the Cambridge house—they would be there in mere minutes. 

Leo licked his lips, and paused to consider his next move. Why did this conversation feel like some sort of high stakes chess match that he was already losing? And what was his actual goal here? If he pushed Riario into losing his self-control now, he would probably lose the chance to get him back into his bed tonight. And right now, it felt unutterably bleak to go to bed alone. This week had changed that for him, at least. 

“So you are strong enough to not get sucked in, but you don’t think I am? You are going all white knight because you don’t think I can possibly handle this myself? That’s completely fucked up, Riario. You do see that, I hope.”

Ahead the traffic light turned red, and Riario eased the car to a stop, then turned and looked full into Leo’s face. “I am already hopelessly compromised, Leo. I have been trying to tell you that. Being my father’s son means I have done some terrible things. I will have to do more terrible things. Staying at the apartment or not makes no difference to my situation. I am trying to spare you.”

The light turned green, and Riario turned his attention back to the road. The house was only a few blocks away, and this was not where Leo wanted to end things.

“Show me you aren’t bored with me,” he whispered, a rough edge to the sound. He still had his hand on Riario’s thigh, now he slid it upwards. “Show me I can trust you mean these things. Come inside with me; don’t go back to that apartment. Not tonight. Show me I mean something to you.”

When they pulled up to the house, the place was mostly dark; a few small table lights scattered a soft glow visible from the road. Leo read this to mean that everyone was out, which was not unusual. Zo and Nico were probably at some party; they frequently stayed out all night. Those were the parties they liked best.

Vanessa was likely with Julian, either out somewhere or tangled up in her room. So the coast was clear; there would be no one to demand he explain what had happened this past week. Once the car stopped, Leo climbed over the console and kissed Riario, as deep and open and warm as he could. All the arguments he hadn’t made came pouring out, his tongue sweeping Riario’s lips and teeth, invading and demanding. 

With a soft growl, Riario brought his arms around, and kissed back like it was combat, with only one winner. Somehow, Leo got the door open, twisting his body so they all but fell out, and had to pick themselves up and move to the door. Leo scrabbled at Riario’s shirt, trying to pull it out of his pants, to feed his skin hunger. The house keys were not cooperating, twisted and impossible to free from his own jeans pocket. Riario pressed him against the door, one forearm against the wood, and wrestled the keys from his grasp. As the door opened, Leo followed it, backing into the foyer, Riario’s body pushing against him. He hit his head slightly, when the door stopped against the wall, and then Riario’s mouth was on his again and he didn’t notice anything else.

“Hello?”

On the edge of his conscious mind, Leo barely registered that someone [that wasn’t Riario’s voice] was speaking. His reactions were slow, his mind already fogged by Riario’s kisses, which had stopped at the sound of the unidentified voice.

“Leo? Is that you?”

Vanessa. Vanessa was home. Vanessa was not out with Julian after all. Leo tried to pull his thoughts back together, to make some sort of polite gesture to keep this situation from being entirely embarrassing; but Riario had already stepped forward.

“Vanessa. It is nice to see you again. I have returned your housemate—undamaged.” He turned to look at Leo, eyes like black ice. “There are still a few things of yours in the trunk. I will get them for you.” Coldly correct, paralyzingly polite, Leo could feel the situation shifting around him as Riario morphed into a well-bred intruder extricating himself from an awkward situation.

And still, he couldn’t corral his thoughts, formulate anything to stop this situation from devolving. Riario was walking out the door, leaving him behind. He’d smoked something in a hookah once, something that left him feeling this same unfocused way, unable to make sense of what was happening around him. He’d woken up, sprawled on the floor face down, hours later, not sure where he was. He was experiencing that sense of drugged helplessness again.

But Vanessa was speaking. Good for Vanessa! Somehow, Leo knew he could trust her to help him out here.

“Wait a moment—please?” She put a hand on Riario’s arm, gently detaining him. “I wanted to thank you. Zo found out a bit about your father, the kind of man he is, why he might have a special interest in our Leo.” There was a wry fondness in her voice. “You kept him from making some very bad decisions. You kept him safe from his own stupid pride.” She brushed Riario’s bangs from his eyes, so he could see the utter sincerity of her face. “Thank you. We owe you a great deal.” 

She placed a brief kiss on Riario’s cheek, then turned away. “Good night, Leo. I am glad you are back safely.” She walked to her room, and softly shut the door.

Leo managed to pull himself upright, and kick the front door shut. He had his fists in Riario’s shirtfront, and was pulling him closer, while stumbling, falling toward his own room. Never letting Riario go, hands in his hair, lips on his mouth, neck, chest, pulling and pressing and no need for anything from the car. Not tonight.

*****

When he woke up the next morning, Riario was gone. The bags that held his clothes, his backpack, even his jacket were precisely lined against the wall next to the door, and the sheets still smelled of leather and sex.


	9. Challenge and Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo wakes up to the reality of his immersion in Riario--time is slipping away, and what will he have left at the end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The good news is that I have written all the way to the end of this fic! I am currently editing it into final form, and may be able to post updates more frequently. I'm hoping to go to twice a week, starting as early as this week. Thank you so much for reading and for your kudos!

Leo took another savagely large helping of the daal as it went around the table. Zo watched him with disbelief.

“I don’t see how you can prefer that to real food, Leo.” He looked down at his own plate, where the bones of a roasted chicken were piling up. “Even if it is possible to eat enough of that to get your required calories, you have to eat that.”

Nico ducked his head to hide a smile. Vanessa reached out and smacked Zo’s wrist. “You leave Leo alone. It is perfectly healthy to be a vegetarian, and if you would even try some of this, you might find that you like it.”

Cradling the wrist against his chest, Zo smiled radiantly at Vanessa. “Darling, if you made it, it is fit for the gods themselves to eat.” Vanessa looked pointedly at his plate, and the conspicuous lack of daal on it. “And I am but a fallen mortal, who does not deserve to eat the food of the gods.”

Vanessa gave him a wry smile in return. “Just because you are charming, Zo, doesn’t mean you are right.”

“I am devastated! I have insulted our very own Vesta! I must do penance to redeem myself.” Zo eyes were dancing with delighted mischief, his dimples carved deep into his cheeks. “Would you like to assign my punishment? I could compose an ode to your beauty, or recite a rosary of your attributes?” He looked around, as if tallying the people at the table. “Since Julian isn’t here tonight, should I put my lips on each of your best features in tribute?” 

It was perhaps the waggling of his eyebrows that finally forced Vanessa to abandon her expression of sternness. “Zo, you are such a cheerful degenerate, it’s almost hard to be offended. Yes, you will have a penance, and it’s piled in the sink. Your turn to do the dishes tonight.”

“Further wounds!” He leaned across the table towards Vanessa, dropping his voice to an intimate whisper, one that was still perfectly audible to everyone else. “I have offered you both my brain and my body, to please you as never a woman has been pleased, and you foist me off to menial chores. Reconsider, angel!”

Even Leo was smiling, something they hadn’t seen very often, not since that week he had disappeared. In actual fact, they hadn’t seen much of Leo at all; he spent all his free time with Riario. Which pricked something in Zo, a resentment that Riario had stolen the best parts of Leo. It tapped a well of jealousy, some possessive streak that he only dimly understood. He wanted the old Leo back, the one who joked and teased with them. He wanted to have the four of them as they used to be, before Leo had developed this addiction to someone else. So he tried to find some source of discord, to wake Leo up from his Riario-drugged state.

“So, Leo, did you know you have some competition? Your boyfriend has made a new conquest.” The tone was still light, but there was a sting beneath it. Leo looked up, but didn’t seem concerned.

Nico, however, was visibly uncomfortable. “Zo, no, that’s not funny.” But Zo was committed to stirring up trouble, and would not be stopped.

“That’s right. Nico is falling under the dangerous spell of your dark paramour.”

Again, Leo did not look bothered, and it made Zo unreasonably upset that Leo refused to rise to the bait. Instead, Leo turned to Nico, and asked quite reasonably, “Where did you see him?”

If he could actually hide behind his golden hair, Nico would have done so. He cast a quick glance at Zo, one he hoped was scathing, before turning back to Leo. “Zo is making a big deal out of nothing. The department had a convocation, and he was the presenter. He’s working on a presentation for a conference next week, and this was like a dress rehearsal.” He swallowed, and grabbed his glass for the dryness he was experiencing, but Leo still looked only politely interested.

“What was the topic?”

“Um, well, as far as I could tell, it was about the, um, the recolonization of the means of production within the borders of empire?” Nico looked even younger than usual, embarrassed by the fact that he hadn’t been able to follow the intricacies of the presentation. “I mean, it was pretty sophisticated, but the part that I got was that the growing income inequality in the United States is, I think, re-creating a colonial system? So, the workers serve the wealthy and are basically viewed as not real citizens, even though they are Americans.” 

Nico’s face was flaming red, he could feel it. It was the curse of his fair skin. But when he looked around, all he saw was three friendly faces, smiling encouragement at him. Leo hadn’t said anything yet, so he took a deep breath and kept talking.

“I guess that this is kind of a new field? Riario said the political effects of income inequality are causing things like voter suppression and militarized police, because now there is an entrenched class of the ultra-wealthy. And they are trying to, um, insulate themselves? Like back in olden days in England, when they just shipped criminals to their colonies in America and Australia? But nobody can do that any more, so they are basically creating colonies along income lines?”

Nico feared he would be laughed at, that he had misunderstood the entirety of Riario’s presentation and he would be embarrassed in front of the people he cared about. Really, they were his friends, and they shouldn’t make fun of him—they wouldn’t, not on purpose. But he cared so much about what they thought of him, that he was over-attuned to the risk of disappointing them. He hated being a much younger student, one who hadn’t had their experience, and he didn’t want to remind them of that. He wanted badly to be taken seriously.

Looking around the table, though, he realized that no one was laughing at him. Vanessa—as always—was looking encouragingly at him, nodding along when he faltered, and generally being the kind of friend he most wanted. Leo was looking thoughtful, but not like he’d heard any kind of gross faux pas. Of course, Leo wasn’t a political scientist; he was in engineering and art. There really wasn’t any reason he’d have any expertise in this field. Unless, Nico reminded himself, he and Riario had talked about it.

Zo was glancing between Nico and Leo, with something avid in his expression. Did he really think Leo was going to be jealous of Nico, just for having listened to a presentation? Sure, Riario was brilliant—everybody said so, and he was magnetic, his carefully modulated voice compelled everyone’s attention. And sure, there were the usual undergraduate girls who came to anything where Riario appeared, looking at him like he was some kind of meal they were missing. 

Nico had been entranced, he could admit that to himself. Riario was striking, he projected a sense of power that he was keeping restrained. The lecture was beyond what Nico had studied—but that was no shame; he was still an undergraduate, and this presentation had been geared to the full time academics. So, Nico understood in his bones that Riario was far out of his league. He was no threat to Leo. Who wouldn’t prefer Leo anyway? Leo was brilliant too. So what was Zo playing at?

“Anyway, he was laying out a theory about colonial uprisings. He says they are like historical templates to explain the next stage in American politics. It’s part of the book he’s writing, but” he looked at Leo, “you probably knew all that. He’s, um. . .he’s a really good speaker, even if the subject is really hard.”

Leo kept the interested smile on his face, as his brain whirred madly. Of course Riario was writing a book, he was a post-doctoral fellow. He was probably updating his doctoral thesis for an academic publisher, as well. Somehow, thinking about Riario felt strange, as if it was something he hadn’t really done before. To be honest with himself, he hadn’t. Riario was a force of nature, a carnal opiate, and Leo hadn’t thought about a future any farther away than their next time together, his next hit. 

But Nico’s words had raised the specter of a real future, a future in which Riario moved beyond Cambridge. It wasn’t just this conference; that was just a symptom. This fellowship had an end date, and Riario would have to move on, find a permanent position somewhere else. 

Zo was saying something, and Leo brought his attention back to the conversation. “Admit it, even Riario thought that was a good question.”

A blush ran up Nico’s face. “Well, I mean, isn’t that what you say while you are thinking about your answer? You say ‘that’s a very good question’ and it gets people on your side while you figure out how to answer it.”

“Don’t undersell yourself, Nico.” Zo smiled, and rubbed his hands together. “Look, you just have to know how to tell the story. Watch and learn. So!” Zo turned to the table as if it were a much larger audience. “Nico here asked one of the questions in the Q&A, and yes, Riario said ‘that’s a very good question’ but it’s what happened afterwards that shows off our lad’s nascent brilliance. Because Nico’s question became the basis of the next several questions, and the head of the department even used it for his question, and furthermore, Riario admitted that he needed to expand that section of his book and it might merit a separate chapter. Then afterwards, Riario came over and specifically talked to Nico over the cheese and crackers.”

Nico was still blushing furiously, but there was a brightness in his eyes like triumph. “Yeah, he asked me what I was studying, how far along I was in the program. I told him I hadn’t declared a major yet, but I was thinking of applying to the international studies program, and he told me he thought I had an ‘international mind.’”

Vanessa beamed, fondness and pride shining out of her face. Zo looked as if he was watching his own invention take wing. Leo smiled, and said “I don’t think Riario gives compliments too often, Nico. That’s quite an achievement.”

It probably made him blush even more, to get a compliment from Leo, but no one could tell, because he ducked his head again and let the curls fall over his face. Vanessa softly clapped her hands. “Bravo, Nico. Your academic career is already distinguished!”

*****

Back in his room, Leo sprawled across his bed, chasing the faint scent of leather Riario left behind him. Something bothered him, and he needed to know what. Possibly it was that Nico knew about Riario’s book before he did. Not that it was Nico’s fault, not at all. But for all the time he spent with Riario, he really didn’t know him—his work, his thoughts, his plans for the future. He was just beginning to poke at that emotional sore spot when there was a soft tap and Vanessa peeked around the door.

“May I come in?”

Leo sat up and smiled. Vanessa closed the door softly behind her and perched on the edge of the bed. Her voice was gentle as she asked, “Are you okay? You seemed to disappear there at the end of dinner.”

“Yeah. Well, I realized something, and it was kind of disturbing. I needed to think about it. Sorry if I was rude.”

Vanessa turned her blue eyes to him, and to his surprise, she looked upset. “Please don’t be mad at Zo. I know he was egging Nico on, but it’s because he is worried about you. Even so, that wasn’t right, and I’m going to have words with him about it.”

“Wait, you think Zo was out of line?” He couldn’t keep the astonishment out of his voice. This was not where he thought the conversation was going to go, at all.

“He certainly was, and it was unnecessarily cruel to you and to Nico.” Wait, Nico was a victim too? Leo was not following the thread of this conversation.

Vanessa stood up, and began wandering through the room, her pale fingers lightly touching the miniature robot figures Leo had assembled, back before Riario happened. They both seemed to have this thought at the same time, as Vanessa said, “You haven’t made any of these for a long time. Nothing has gone missing out of the kitchen for weeks now.”

And that was also true. This thing he had with Riario had changed his life much more than he had realized.

“Anyway, what you have with Riario is none of Zo’s business. It’s just—well, you disappeared that night, and you have no idea how worried Zo was. You didn’t see him, but he was convinced that something terrible had happened. Like, that you were kidnapped, or that you had gotten injured and were in a hospital somewhere, or something equally catastrophic.” She picked up a little Lego figure; Leo had a sketch of a servo he meant to build onto it, but he’d never gotten around to it. She held it up close, and smiled. “This is really cute. Anyway, about Zo. He was talking about calling the police when we got your first text, and even that didn’t really reassure him. Then, you went silent, and he—well, I have never seen him so worried. Upset. Leo, he stopped smiling entirely!”

She set down the figure and turned towards him, hands clasped behind her back. “Have you ever really seen Zo not smiling? I mean, usually, even if he’s not actually smiling, you feel like there’s one back there, just waiting to burst out and blind you.” She rocked a little, up onto her toes and back down. “He lost all that while you were gone. You don’t know how much you mean to him, Leo. I don’t think any of us really knew until you disappeared.”

He found himself abashed, which is not a feeling he had much experience with at all. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I mean, we didn’t have wifi for a lot of the time and.” The sentence just drifted off, unfinished, like so many things in this room.

Vanessa held up a hand, like a medieval painting of a saint offering benediction; she really was very beautiful. Leo realized he’d stopped actually seeing her some time ago, taking her for granted. “I’m not scolding you, and you don’t owe me an apology. You ran off with your boyfriend and got distracted. It’s not the worst thing anyone has ever done. It’s not even the worst thing anyone in this house has done. Recently.” Her smile lit up her face, and Leo wanted to modernize medieval iconography, just to capture that expression. 

“I’m making excuses for Zo behaving inexcusably. Which really isn’t any of my business either, but I’m giving myself permission for the benefit of good housemate relations. So I’m doing it for my own selfish reasons.” She smiled at him, and he could imagine Botticelli painting her. How had he stopped seeing her beauty? It made him feel awkward, like he needed to tell her that he had been blind, to ask her forgiveness.

“Vanessa, I—“ Fortunately for him, she cut him off. “You don’t have to explain, Leo. I just wonder. Are you happy?”

Happy? What was happy, and why should she ask him about that? This conversation started out confusing and hadn’t gotten any better as it went along. “Do I seem unhappy to you?”

“No, not unhappy, not exactly.” She turned back to the bookshelves, hiding her face by pretending to examine his miniatures. “It’s just that—you are different since Riario happened. You don’t smoke anymore, do you?”

Well, that was weird, because he hadn’t noticed it himself for a while, and it was unnerving that a housemate did. He tried to pass it off with a laugh, “Well, not intentionally.”

She drifted back around the room towards him, still lightly touching some of the many unfinished projects that littered the horizontal surfaces, abandoned in the weeks—months—he’d been concentrating on Riario instead. “I think that’s probably a sign that Riario is good for you, no matter what Zo thinks.”

“Zo thinks Riario is bad for me? Zo thinks he knows what I need better than I do?” He couldn’t help it, he sounded defensive and bitter. Vanessa heard the tone, and bit her lip as she thought about how to answer him.

“Zo is worried, Leo. He’s done some more research on DRV and what they do, and he’s afraid that Riario might be implicated.” She picked up a book to read the title on the cover, then replaced it on the desk. “He’s the one who noticed you haven’t been making your little robots any more, he’s the one who noticed you aren’t smoking any more. He sees you, Leo, and he cares.” She tucked one corner of her mouth up in a wry smile. “He just acts stupidly.”

Still, Leo wasn’t entirely certain he understood why Vanessa needed to tell him all this. “I’m not angry at Zo, Vanessa. I’m not sure I understand why you think I would be.”

She looked directly at him, her eyes sharp and penetrating as if she could read his thoughts like text. “If you aren’t angry, then there is no reason for you to be.” Her expression softened, and smiled again. “Maybe my work here is done.” 

She stood up, brushed down her skirt, but Leo stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Vanessa, why didn’t I stay in your bed?” And then he immediately regretted it, because the expression that crossed her face contained hurt and awkwardness. She smoothed it over quickly, but there was a sharpness in her voice.

“I don’t know, Leo. You never told me.” She took a breath, steadying herself. “We had our time, Leo, but you used to move so fast. There wasn’t anyone who could keep up with you; at least I couldn’t. We weren’t built for a long run.” She looked at straight into his eyes, her own blue eyes wide and honest. She was so very forthright, and Leo realized with a pang that he missed that quality. Riario was many things, but “forthright” was not one of them. 

Vanessa’s gaze did not waiver as she continued. “We flamed out quickly, fizzed and burnt. We’re better as friends. Anyway, now I’ve got Julian, and you’ve got Riario, and I guess we have our memories anyway.”

She stood up, brisk and efficient. “I’m going to go supervise Zo. His idea of what constitutes ‘clean dishes’ falls short of actually ‘clean’ some times. I can start yelling at him for that.” She stopped short of the door, her glance caught on something on an upper shelf. “Leo, you little shit. Those are my measuring cups!” She put an arm up, but whatever she was aiming for was too high for her to actually reach. Instead, she gave him a teasing smile that meant he was forgiven, but would have to stand being ragged for a while still. “Keep them, there is no way I could sterilize them into being safe for food after being in this den of iniquity for so long. Good night, Leo.”

She left him with plenty to think about; Zo as a worrier was a new idea he was going to have to work his head around. But more pressing was the question of Riario. 

What was Riario to him, and what was he to Riario? With some embarrassment, he remembered yelling “you do not get to treat me like some rent boy.” It had felt like a devastating accusation at the time. Now he wasn’t so sure. Because what they had was unsustainable, and Nico had forced him to realize it. Riario was a post-doctoral candidate; he was only here until the end of the academic year, which was approaching fast.

Of course they hadn’t even acknowledged this, or talked about it. For the most part, they hadn’t discussed anything that required more than fragments. “There,” “like that;” “I want,” and “mine.” “More,” and “again.” “Now.”

Even just remembering, Leo could feel his eyes go unfocused and his muscles go slack. No wonder they didn’t talk; merely imagining Riario’s presence wiped Leo’s thoughts blank. In fact, as he cast his mind back over the months since they’d taken up together, much time was a blank, a wash of white noise. He could remember moments, but they were all physical; the scratch of nails on his chest, Riario’s scent of leather and sex, the press of a body against his.

With a groan, he rolled over and pressed his face into the pillows. The lingering scent was faint—it was a form of timekeeping, tracking when it had been too long since Riario had been in his bed. It had been too long, and he felt the craving stir. His hand crept down his own body, and he breathed Riario’s name. 

It was merely a physical release, however, not the transcendently absorbing experience Riario was. So his brain did not slow down, but continued to worry at the problem. It was already April, and the academic year ended in May. Had they ever even noticed the calendar? Had they ever acknowledged that time was passing and their situations were going to change? No need to even ask that question, the answer was obvious. He had been sleepwalking through his own life, and even now he didn’t know what he wanted, or what was even possible.

Propping himself against the headboard, he looked around at the projects that lined the room: the armature that lacked clay; the sketches that remained unfinished. There were models of fantastical construction that he could not even remember what he had imagined they would be. Books lay open to the pages where he had abandoned them months ago. His plans, his projects, all the products of his fizzing brain lay inert and untouched as he had spent these months drugging himself with Riario’s body. Before Riario, he would come into this room, see the various projects in progress, and something could fire in his brain—to be fair, it was rarely the impulse to finish something. More often it was a new idea that he would chase down instead. But these months? Almost nothing.

He dropped onto his bed, stretched out on his back. This had not been a waste of time; he couldn’t think that. There was some purpose, some meaning behind his addiction to Riario, there had to be--because he had done it. This was a familiar problem, Leo was used to this—so often, his brain worked in ways that he didn’t understand. It ran after ideas without conscious thought, and his task was to follow the clues that his brain left behind, to see where it was leading him. 

This was probably an experiment—so many of the crazy things he did turned out to be. This one was apparently a larger project than any of the unfinished projects around him, because it had taken him away from everything else. And it had lasted longer than any other enthusiasm. So duration and intensity were unusual, outside the scope of his usual experiences. 

Well, of course it was! Riario was nothing like the little robots scattered on the shelves, was nothing like a bit of coding to be debugged. Riario was the difference between a. . . a. . . . Here, Leo’s brain bogged down, unable to formulate an appropriate metaphor. Comparing Riario to his previous obsessions was like—like comparing a picture of lettuce to actually eating a spicy Ethiopian stew, with all the spice and heat and texture, the feeling of physical well being that came from being well fed. Riario was the difference between kissing your sister, and being well and truly ravished by a lover, falling back into tangled sheets, damp with sweat, muscles deliciously stretched and sore, mouth bruised and tingling from rough kisses and a spiky beard. 

It was ridiculous to call Riario “an experiment” as if he was anything but a new way for Leo to live with his own fizzing, sparking brain. Because while it was more productive to live with the buzzing, it was honestly also exhausting. He looked around the room. The robots and the tiny motors and the unfinished sketches and the notebook of plans: so many of them represented days spent without sleeping or eating, chasing down the wisps of inspiration and invention. Most of them were unfinished; some because he’d encountered a block that stopped him, others because he’d come up with new and more exciting ideas and had hared off after them.

To be brutally honest, he hadn’t been all that much more productive before Riario, because while he launched new projects, he hadn’t finished many. In the months he’d submerged himself in Riario, he simply hadn’t started anything; but his completion rate was unchanged. 

So this was the experiment, yes? To manage the twin goals of progress toward degree (starting and, yes, finishing projects, actually writing the dissertations chapters) and not burning out in the process. The past two and a half years showed plenty of false starts and abandoned effort, along with erratic eating and sleeping schedules that frequently left him feeling hollowed out. Then he’d either crash for days, or he’d find someone with some pills to keep going. The results were mixed at best. Many promising starts, nothing finished, and himself a burned out husk of himself for days afterwards.

So this semester was the semester of Riario. The semester of being clean; no drugs, no tobacco, no mania-fueled days of working and not sleeping, and the result was—literally sketchy. So far he had pages and pages of sketches of Riario: Riario sleeping; Riario reading; Riario’s hands; Riario’s legs; Riario’s torso; Riario in profile; Riario looking away; Riario in three-quarter view. Mostly, though, he had eyes; pages and pages of attempting to capture the expressions of Riario’s eyes. 

“Okay! Going to step away from the notebooks now!” Gently tossing the sketchbook away from himself—he knew, just knew, he could lose a lot of time studying the drawings, trying to figure out where exactly he had failed to capture Riario’s essence. So Riario was not just a narcotic to quiet his brain. He had been a subject fascinating enough to keep Leo hard at work trying to capture him.

This was interesting. This was worth thinking about. Sure, he’d not actually made any progress on his engineering projects or writing his thesis, but he’d learned something about his brain and how to work with it. Something deeply engaging and physically exhausting saved him from the vagaries of his own excesses, but changed what he could productively work on.

Or maybe Riario was just too absorbing and he could have Riario or he could have his studies, but right now he couldn’t have both. And if it was a choice he had to make right now, there was no question that he’d choose to have Riario here.


	10. Gala Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riario gets an unexpected guest, and Leo unexpectedly ends up wearing a tuxedo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A midweek update! I'm still working furiously to finalize the last few chapters, and increasing the posting frequency makes it more urgent so that they are ready in time! 
> 
> As always, let me know if tags need to be updated, or other corrections are called for, and thank you for reading!

Riario’s sheets were crisp and cool, freshly laundered and ridiculously high thread count. They felt delicious against his naked body as he slid into the perfection of his solitary bed. It felt almost holy, as soothing as a balm after a day of wrestling with sourcing a difficult footnote. His presentation to the department had gone well, but he was making revisions for the conference in Michigan, where he had an interview for a tenure track position lined up. It was important for him to finalize the presentation and make some headway on the additional material for the book.

So he really needed the ability to focus, to concentrate on his own work, and he knew from long experience that he worked more effectively when he was able to minimize the outside distractions. The quiet and orderly apartment was itself an antidote to the Byzantine thinking he was doing around the final revisions of his book.

In some ways, living like this, in as small a footprint as possible, was actually freeing. He literally had nothing more than clothing and toiletries here, and when he left it, he would only need a dufflebag to transport everything he owned. It was almost monastic, this dedication to disciplined living—if monks had high thread count sheets and exquisitely tailored clothing.

The image made him smile, a small motion in the corner of his lips. All of this was absolutely true; but why did he feel a pang of nostalgia when remembering the mess Leo had strewn around their room in Maine? He’d positively itched to clear up the loose pages of drawing paper, to stack and then square the notebooks that were piled on the bedside table. One heap had crashed to the floor in the small hours of the morning, startling him awake. He’d lain with his eyes open in the dark room, alert for any sounds that someone ( _say it, you were afraid it was your father_ ) was in the room. Of course, Leo had slept through that; either because it was a sound he was used to hearing, or because he had only just gone to sleep. In that case, nothing short of an explosion that would have caused him to stir.

The experience of living in such close quarters with Leo had been disconcerting. He was such an exasperating mess and paradoxically so desirable at the same time that Riario wasn’t sure which he wanted more; to shake some sense into him, or kiss him senseless. And the way he treated possessions—it was almost a physical irritant to see Leo simply drop his clothing where he stepped out of them and leave them there indefinitely. The scattered art materials, the sketchbooks with broken and battered spines, the laundry that just accumulated, the way Leo would kick piles out of his way rather than pick them up; these should have cumulatively destroyed Riario’s ability to endure Leo’s presence. That had not happened. It was like living with a toddler, the messes Leo left in his wake; a toddler’s level of executive function, balanced against the appeal of his genius brain and his well muscled and mature body, one that responded ardently to his own.

That had always been most gratifying, but perhaps he should examine his own response more critically. Because Leo was a mass of twitching and fluttering tics, the energy of his thoughts coming out in physical movement: near constant pacing, jiggling knees, drumming fingers, unceasing doodling and scribbling. Yet, Riario could still him with a look, with the press of his fingers into the muscles of Leo’s thigh, by circling Leo’s wrist, breathing into his ear. “Mine” was enough to render him pliant, and why was that? It was a powerful experience of control over another person, a person he could not control any other way, a person who invaded his thoughts and held sway over him. A form of control he had experienced from his own father.

At that, Riario swore. He rolled over and punched a pillow into a different shape, shoving it beneath his head. _I am not my father; I do not repeat his acts_. There was no way to deny it, even to himself, that he enjoyed causing Leo to slow and soften, to go blurry with desire. It was the enjoyment that bothered him the most. It worried him, that he might find the exercise of that power more intoxicating than anything else.

He was about to swear again, when a soft sound reached his ears; a metal “click” followed by a whisper of motion. This time he did swear as he tossed back the duvet and crept to the stairs.

His bare feet made no sound in the thick pile of the carpet; as he crept down the stairs, he inventoried the objects he might be able to use as weapons. He had long trained in krav maga, so he was by no means defenseless, but a blunt object would be valuable if there were more than one intruder. At least his eyes were already adjusted to the dark, which would be an advantage, since the entrance to the apartment was from a well-lit hallway, meaning a burglar (or worse) would be momentarily blinded and unable to see him attack. . .

“Holy Christ!” He threw up his arm to block the blaze of light and stumbled back involuntarily, landing painfully but at least not actually falling down the stairs. What sort of robber turns on all the lights? That thought was followed immediately by the realization that all the noise he made would have scared off an ordinary criminal. Anyway, a burglar would not have screamed in that particular high-pitched way. He didn’t need to see into the entry; he knew who it was. He would have preferred a thief.

With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and walked downstairs. “Hello, Lulu. What are you doing here?”

She screamed again. That was when he remembered he was still naked.

*****

After he got dressed, he ended up making tea for them both, as she wrangled her ridiculous luggage into the apartment, all the while babbling at him. “Uncle Sandro said I could stay, he never even hinted that you were here too, I had no idea or I would have at least texted you.” It didn’t matter what she said, she was troweling on normalcy with social small talk that neither of them expected he would listen to. Eventually he got her into the second bedroom, with all her luggage. When he could finally close himself into his own room, he sagged onto the bed, and rubbed his face with his hands. Cousin Lulu—Lucrezia della Rovere, although she used her mother’s name, “Donati”—was the daughter of his uncle Frank, his own father’s twin brother. As such, they had been thrown together awkwardly over their lifetimes, although they had very little in common other than their blood relationship.

Now she was here, for an indeterminate amount of time. Really, it shouldn’t bother him; he had no duty to entertain her or squire her around the city. God knows, she would be less messy than Leo had been. There was no denying, however, that these logical arguments did not overcome the physical revulsion he felt having her here.

*****

Two days later, she tracked him down on campus, at the coffee shop near his office. It couldn’t have been difficult, actually. His office was publically listed on the university website, and didn’t everybody drink coffee? But she acted like she had pulled off some feat of international espionage.

“I knew I could find you! You sneaked out of the apartment before I could properly talk to you, but you can’t evade me once I’ve set my sights! I’ve had to track down too many models who refuse to return calls, or shy designers who can’t talk to strangers. I can’t be foiled by an amateur like you.”

Riario gritted his teeth; his irritation was such that he had to consciously direct where he was going to express it. Otherwise, he would have destroyed a paper cup full of still hot coffee, and that would have been more trouble than Lulu was worth. He was not willing to incur dry cleaning bills because of her, and he would have deeply regretted the waste of decent coffee. So he sat back, crossed his legs, and covered his annoyance with a deliberate veneer of dispassion. It would be quicker to let her say whatever it was she had come to say; he could agree to whatever she required with less personal inconvenience than it would take to avoid her.

“He is our guest editor for one of the summer issues,” she was rattling on; a designer, whose name he had failed to hear, was designing costumes for a new ballet being staged. “The crown jewel of the season, of course, so he is being featured at the gala next weekend. Of course, the magazine has taken a table; how could we not? I am covering it as well, but we need to have the seats filled and I can get plenty of models, but I need more men. I know you have a tuxedo; is there anyone else you know?”

This was how she worked, he reflected. Perhaps it was a trait she had inherited, because it felt familiar. She hadn’t actually asked him if he would attend, she just assumed that he would do what she wanted, and that furthermore, he would rustle up additional bodies to fill her table. Doing her job for her, essentially.

Ordinarily, he would categorically refuse to drag anyone else to one of these horrors, but the idea of Leo there was both a joke and a relief. At least, Leo might prove to be an escape route. Riario pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts. “I know a couple of candidates who might fit your preferred demographic” he said. “One of them definitely has a girlfriend he would want to bring.”

Lulu smiled. “So I just uninvite one of the models, no worries. It’s not like they actually eat the dinners anyway. Let me know ASAP, okay.” She stood up, air kissed at him, and fluttered away.

With a malicious smile on his face, Riario sent a text to Leo. “I need a date for a charity function. . . .”

*****

The venue was appropriately high-end, the appetizers were passed by crisply uniformed staff rather than laid on a buffet, the bar offered a signature cocktail sponsored by a branded vodka. The attendees had an average age of over seventy, according to his estimates. In short, it was a typical fund-raising gala, and he was bored. He assumed Leo was even more so.

In his hand sat the signature vodka martini that had been handed to each of the guests. He’d had a single sip but found it revolting; a badly crafted mix of sour and bitter dumped into an overly sweet mixer. He’d simply held it as a prop, nursing it for the duration of the pre-dinner events. Leo, on the other hand, had swiftly polished his off, and gone back for more.

“You have the worst taste in intoxicants of anyone I have ever met,” Riario observed as he watched Leo pour back his third—or was it his fourth?—of the terrible drinks.

“And you have the worst taste in Things To Do on a Thursday Night of anyone I have ever met. These ones are free, and they are going to get me through this.” Leo set his glass on a convenient surface, then ran a finger around his collar. “I would ask you why you come to these things, but I’m afraid you will tell me, and I have decided that I really don’t care.”

Riario raised his neglected drink in a toast to Leo’s insight. “Which is why I asked you to come as well. I did not wish to suffer alone.”

“You are not welcome. Honestly, if I needed these people, this would be worthwhile—I can’t believe how much economic inequality is concentrated in this one room.” Leo looked around, eyes resting lightly on the jewels glittering at throats and ears. “You’d think they’d be afraid of being robbed, all conveniently gathered in one place.”

“Oh, they almost certainly are, thus there is a significant budget for security at a place like this. Also insurance. At least someone seems to be enjoying herself.” Riario gestured with his glass at Vanessa, who glowed by Julian’s side. She seemed to be playing a game, of stealthily brushing up against the furs of the older women around her, then whispering into Julian’s ear.

Leo watched for a few moments, and observed “She prefers sable.”

“Hmmm. She’s got good taste.”

Lulu had arranged the table placements, putting herself between Riario and Lawrence Medford. Leo was across the table with the professional guest, a model or something, based on her gauntness. Julian sat between the model and Vanessa, and Lawrence’s date completed the table of eight. Lulu had been absent for most of the cocktail hour; more precisely, she had been busy mingling and networking, and only alighted near her “guests” at the table. In fact, she dropped into her seat just as the first course was being set.

She pulled her napkin into her lap and with the same motion leaned to murmur into Riario’s ear. “Who is that delicious hunk of man at the other side of the table?”

Riario repressed a shudder. Something about their shared history made everything she said sound gauche, it was worse to think she’d singled out Leo. “Artist,” he said, choosing selectively. “Poor. Very, very poor. Not your type at all, Lulu.”

She purred. “I would make an exception for him.” To Riario’s disgust, she made more cat noises in his ear. Honestly, he wondered if she really was this crass, or if she just did this because she enjoyed making him uncomfortable. There was really no way to tell. “And who are Mr. Pretty, and Mr. Even Prettier?”

Riario rolled his eyes, but of course she couldn’t see it from where she was. “The Medford sons: Lawrence and Julian. Lawrence is the elder, and is positioned to step into his father’s role once the old man retires. He’s engaged to Clarice Orsini, who is next to him, and she’s just as savvy as he is, so watch yourself.”

“I enjoy a challenge. And Mr. Even Prettier?”

“Julian? Dating Vanessa. Dilettante. Still unseasoned, rather naïve and allowed to stay that way, since the family is pinning their future on Lawrence.”

She made a puzzled sound as she sat back away from him, finally. He grabbed his glass of wine and took an unseemly gulp. Across the table, Leo was engaged in an animated conversation with the waif at his side, which Riario took offence with. The entire point of dragging Leo to this pointless affair was to alleviate his boredom, not to chat up some skeletal female and to have the effrontery to look like he was enjoying it.

On his other side, Vanessa was becoming tipsy, and she leaned in to ask, “So, do you get to come to these sorts of things all the time? Lucky you! I feel like Cinderella at the ball, except I brought my prince with me.” She smiled over at Julian, then turned back to the glowering Riario. “I can see how you are looking at Leo, you know. Everybody can. And you look like a villain plotting to destroy the planet or something.” She giggled, and patted his hand. “You should enjoy this. We are the only people I even know who have ever been to something like this in their lives. We are the lucky ones!”

She turned back to Julian as the first plates were cleared. Once the meals arrived, the roar of the ballroom quieted, and it was possible to conduct conversations with the entire table. It turned out that the woman next to Leo was actually a member of the corps de ballet, one of several seeded at various tables to encourage generous donations. Leo was apparently arranging a tour of the dance studio in order to sketch; a modern Degas, Riario thought sourly.

So he took Vanessa’s characterization to heart, and did begin villainously plotting how soon he could escape the table at least, ideally the entire event as well. He slipped his hand into his pocket to confirm that the key card was there: he’d had the foresight to book a room upstairs. He was going to need it, possibly sooner than later. He glared at Leo across the table, and finished his wine before the next course was even laid before him.

There were speeches, of course, before they were released from the tables; Riario heard nothing of any of them. Certain words were articulated, the expected ones: “culture” and “artistry,” as well as “world-class city” and “force for artistic expression.” Lulu had been twittering at him about the silent auction. Apparently, that was the place where the gala made its profit; the sale of tables covered the facility and meal costs. At least, that’s what he understood though the fog of trying very hard not to listen to her. Without making a spectacle of himself, he managed to leave the dining room and gather up Leo, steering him toward the tables of items arranged for bidding.

“Pick something.” The words were harsh, ground out between his gritted teeth, although he managed to keep his voice pitched low. “I don’t care what, but I have to put a bid on something, so pick something you would want.” It turned out this may have been a mistake, as Leo looked at everything offered, considering what he would most like to win.

“When you said you didn’t care, did you really mean you didn’t care? If, for example, I asked you to bid on a sports event, would you really do it?” The impish look on his face was bordering on malicious; perhaps one should never grant Leo free rein, because he would push things just to see how far he would be allowed to go.

“No, I would not.” Riario scanned the nearest bid lists. “Here, we will put down a ridiculous number for this vintage wine. If I should win it, I will attempt to improve your palate.” He scribbled down a number that made Leo’s eyes go wide.

“Would you really pay that much for wine?” Honestly, he sounded as unseasoned as Vanessa.

“Of course not. I would never simply purchase this wine for that much money. It’s a donation. Don’t force me to bore us both by explaining it. There are far better uses for our time.” He’d been edging Leo away from the ballroom as he spoke, toward the lobby elevators. Leo was balking slightly, because that was what Leo did; it seemed like he made himself obnoxious whenever possible.

“But this isn’t the way to—“ The elevator doors slid open, and Riario crowded him into the enclosed space, hit the floor button and pressed Leo against the wall.  
“No, it isn’t,” he breathed. “But by all means, tell me you would rather spend the next two hours being bored by Boston society, and I will leave you to it.” He ran a hand down the front of Leo’s trousers, noticing the way his eyes went dark in response. “Tell me to stop and I will let you go back there.” He dropped his voice, barely audible. “Tell me to stop.”

Instead, Leo bit his lips and fumbled with Riario's shirt studs.

*****

Because the universe was unfair, Lulu was still at the apartment the next morning when Riario returned. She was dawdling over some form of a meal, scrolling through articles on an iPad, still not dressed for the day. Riario declined to take any notice of her nightwear.

“I saw you, last night Giro. You and your starving artist—that’s why you warned me away from him; because you want him yourself.” She threw him a coy look from the corner of her eye. “Does Uncle Sandro know about him?” She took another look, realized he was still in the tuxedo from the night before. “Nice walk of shame duds there, by the way.”

Riario dropped his keys into the drawer and sighed. “There is no such thing as a walk of shame for men, my dear. Thank you patriarchy. And frankly, I prefer to keep my private life private: that’s why it’s called that. So no, I haven’t called up my father to tell him anything about my life.” I don’t have to, he’s got sources if he wants to know.

Lulu smiled; she was a beautiful woman, he could acknowledge that. It was just that everything about her set him on edge. “Well, he won’t hear it from me! You go, Giro, and get yourself some of that sexy artist! I’ve got my eye on Lorenzo anyway.” She paused for moment, as a brief flicker of disappointment crossed her face. “His brother is cuter, but still too young. He needs to mature, like a fine wine.” She turned back to her screen. “Anyway, thanks for filling that table for me. You did a very nice job.”

He sighed and walked past her, headed upstairs to shower and change, but she wasn’t quite finished with him. “Sorry if my ballerina made things awkward for you last night. The two of them really seemed to be into each other, didn’t you think? Hope you aren’t too disappointed to find out that your boy is bi.”

That stopped him. Not because the barb had hit something vulnerable (of course it hadn’t, Lulu was not clever enough to find a weak spot) but because not answering it would have let her think she had scored against him. He turned, and stared for several long seconds, his eyes slightly narrowed, chin up, radiating distain as hard as possible. “What Leo is, or is not, is not something I care to discuss with you. As I said, I prefer to keep my private life private.”

Upstairs, he turned the water hotter than usual, feeling the need to scrub her laugh off his skin.

*****

Leo turned the key in the lock as quietly as possible, hoping to slip into the house unnoticed, at least until he changed out of the tuxedo and into his more normal clothes. Something about having to see Zo while wearing something so utterly ridiculous was killing his soul. In fact, if he thought he could bypass the front door entirely—maybe go through his bedroom window?—he would.

So of course, everyone was in the front room, and they all turned and looked at him as soon as the door opened. Even Julian Medford was there, which seemed especially unfair for some reason that Leo didn’t want to think about just yet.

“You know, some people were able to make it home from the party last night, Cinderella. Did you get caught when your coach turned back into a pumpkin?”

At least Zo wasn’t looking hurt, which was Leo’s biggest concern. Logically, there was no reason he should feel guilty; he wasn’t responsible for picking whom to invite. That had been entirely Riario’s business, and Leo hadn’t even realized anybody else was going to that stupid event until he got there. (Yeah, but Riario is your fault, isn’t he? If it weren’t for you being in this ridiculous situation with him, none of this would have happened, so the faults of the boyfriend are visited on you unto the seventh generation or something.)

Nico put two fingers in his mouth and managed a piercing wolf whistle, while Zo and Julian stomped and clapped, a cadence of “Le-OH, Le-OH, Le-OH” that was at least enthusiastic, if not precisely flattering. So Leo decided he could play to the house for a moment at least, and pretend that the attention was directed to his unusually dapper outfit. Accordingly he vogued into several poses that he hoped looked like something out of a modeling portfolio. He swung the tuxedo jacket over his shoulder, dangling it from his index finger; he slung his undone bow tie around his neck and unbuttoned the shirt further. He dropped his chin, furrowed his brow, and attempted a smolder. Despite Zo’s enthusiastic catcalls, he declined full stripper dance mode.

Instead, he held out his hands in a “settle down” motion, repeating, “You are too kind, really. No, honestly, I don’t deserve this. Zo is the real stripper here, you want him, not me.” Vanessa was swatting any heads she could reach, so before too long things settled back to a sort of normalcy. “Normal” in this case meaning some continued abuse from Zo.

“Well, you appalling homosexual class traitor, did your boyfriend kidnap you and sell you into prostitution for that tuxedo?” No, not normal: there was a bitter undercurrent, not just the usual affectionate slander. Did Zo really want to go to this kind of event, or was he just worried that Leo would be different now? That by going to a single event, he was moving into Riario’s social milieu, he was rejecting his own life? Zo’s life?

Vanessa heard the venom under the words too, Leo could see it in the way her eyes widened and she leapt to his defense. “It’s a rental, Zo, don’t be an ass. Even you could swing a tuxedo for one night.” Before he could open his mouth, she continued “Not that you’d want to. Tuxedos are traditionally worn buttoned all the way up to the neck. I don’t think your chest has ever been so constrained.”

Nico stepped in, as well, with the particular blend of social interrogation and interpersonal naiveté that made him so dangerous. “Who even wears tuxedos anymore? I bet, statistically, you’d find that waiters are the largest number of tuxedo wearers in the country. I mean, it used to be a socio-economic class marker, but except for orchestra members and wedding parties, tuxedos are definitely working class don’t you think?”

The silence was loud; Leo had always thought that was something people said just to seem clever, but he could almost hear the way no one was saying anything. Julian, who was usually quite hot headed, had been shocked into silence, his jaw working to form words, but none actually making it out of his throat. Vanessa looked stricken, torn between her reflexive affection for Nico and his precociousness, and her real concern that Julian was going to blow an artery. Leo himself was surprised; he’d certainly never thought about clothing much beyond whether he was warm or cold and if he needed to do laundry; Riario’s insistence on a tuxedo for this event hadn’t even registered as being meaningful in any way. Only Zo seemed to take this in stride; he beamed as though Nico were his own personal performing pet who had just mastered a new trick.

“Yes! Yes, Nico, you are right! Waiters and sommeliers are the only people who regularly wear tuxes any more, and fuck me for being jealous of Leo in a penguin costume!” He grabbed the younger man’s head between his own huge hands, and deposited an exaggerated kiss on the golden curls. “Bless you, Nico, for being a seeing man in the land of the blind!”

What Leo didn’t tell his friends: he had woken up in the elegant hotel, languid and sloe-eyed. His muscles were pleasantly sore and his skin was exquisitely sensitive. He shifted to his side, feeling the pull and stretch of his thigh muscles, inhaling the familiar scent of sex and expensive leather from the sheets. But the bed was empty and there was no sign of Riario anywhere. Out of revenge, Leo ordered an enormous meal from room service but left most of it untouched. He cleared out the honor bar, but then couldn’t bring himself to steal a pillow case to carry all the bottles and jars home in, so he left it all piled on the bed like a funerary offering for a pagan king. The night might have been a success, but the morning had killed the fairy tale for him.

*****

His trainer was waiting for him, just as he waited every morning, although Riario had rescheduled it from his usual hour of 5:30. Riario sweated and punched his way through the punishing two hour regimen, knowing that Leo had no idea he was even gone, refusing to imagine how he would feel when he woke to the empty hotel room.

He was also consciously not thinking about the text message from his father that had greeted him when he awoke: “I know you are with him. I will wait, but not forever.”


	11. Escape Plan, Step One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riario-centric chapter, as he wrestles with his future. Also some academic geekiness around Renaissance art and Bible studies.

On the flight to Michigan, Riario remained uneasy about the text from his father. “I know you are with him. I will wait, but not forever.” It was more than just the words, which were ominous enough. It was evidence of surveillance that was itself a threat. “I know you are with him” –the message was delivered while Riario _was_ with Leo, making it clear that his father had the ability to track him; could possibly reach him at any moment. It was not an idle threat, and Riario knew it.

It was of a piece with the way Alessandro had tolerated his continued studies with barely concealed distain. He saw no point in advanced degrees; to his mind, Riario was already the heir to DRV and had been groomed all his life for succession. Alessandro had plans, had made arrangements to place Riario in a series of influencial positions where he would promote DRV’s interests, and he was unhappy those plans had to be postponed. Alessandro was not a patient man.

Absently, Riario touched the old scar just below his left eye. There had been an argument about Riario’s future, and his father’s ring had cut him open. He’d considered himself lucky the blow hadn’t been any higher, and he had worked hard to not antagonize his father again.

Since meeting Leo, however, he had increasingly violated the perfect obedience Alessandro expected-- _enforced_. He’d failed spectacularly at the celibacy Alessandro required. “No one expects you to be a monk, Girolamo, but I will not tolerate your perverse prediclections.” So he had been celibate for years. Until Leo. 

Now time was running out, and he needed an escape plan. He had arranged this trip, what appeared to be just another academic conference, as camouflage for an interview he hoped would carry him outside his father’s reach. The college was small, rural, far from any major airports, making it inconvenient for Alessandro to send thugs to intimidate him into returning. With the proposed salary, he could afford to forfeit the trust fund, and finally be free of the violent future his father had mapped out for him. In the islolation of an airplane, he allowed himself the luxury of burning with rage; an emotion his father would never tolerate.

These were heavy stakes he was playing for, and he knew it, so he was not temperamentally well-suited to the jocular tone of the opening address. It was listed on the schedule as “Topics in Art History”, but the actual presentation was titled “Ugly Baby, Why? An Analysis of Renaissance Painting and the Meaning of the Homunculus.” Two art historians presented a series of slides, mostly of the Madonna and Child genre, and one had to admit, the babies did not look like any infants Riario had ever seen. With the figures isolated from the broader painting, and then displayed in quick succession, the effect was less religious, and more like involuntarily attending a freak show. The accompanying commentary included a tongue-in-cheek analyses of the state of anatomical studies in the fifteenth century, and a hypothosis that the babies were actually stunted adults, and thus “proving” that tobacco had arrived in Europe centuries eariler than previously supposed. 

When the doors were mercifully opened, Riario sought the coffee urns. He found himself reaching for a cup at the same time as a placid woman. He stepped back politely, and she turned her large dark eyes toward him. “I saw you in the keynote speech.” She filled her Styrofoam cup, and added cream and sugar. “I don’t think you enjoyed it.”

Riario automatically defaulted to a non-committal answer; he was well trained after all. “I fear I am no art historian; I lack the background to appreciate the satire.” He was using his careful voice, low and husky, designed to draw out the other speaker while revealing as little as possible about himself. “What did you think of it?”

The woman looked at him carefully, her dark eyes sizing him up; he felt his usual discomfort at being observed, and yet she didn’t seem to be judging him. “Well, it was not the usual sort of fare one expects, was it? It was not without value. I was taken with the theory that the artists were uncertain of how to reconcile a purely holy Christ with the, shall we say, physical realities of human infant.” She smiled down into her drink. “I don’t think anybody wanted to accept that the Christ child had dirty diapers, for example.”

Riario nodded soberly. “So that would explain the impressive abdominal region? God-in-human-form comes with a six-pack at birth?”

She smiled directly at him. “Since the historical record is remarkably thin on the existence of Bowflex machines in first century Judea, I think we are on pretty solid ground accepting those abs as metaphorical.”

Her smile lit up her broad face, her bright teeth a striking contrast to her dark skin. As she looked at him, he could imagine himself falling into those eyes. With an effort, he looked away to find her name tag.

“Zita? Only one name? Are academics now adopting pop star naming conventions?”

She stared straight through him at that, her gaze boring into his eyes. Then she nodded, which seemed to indicate he had passed whatever test she had given him.

“I do have a last name, in fact, but it’s long and unconventional. No one is able to read it or pronounce it. So rather than spending all my time explaining my name, I get to have more interesting conversations.” Her voice carried a cadence, not quite a lilt, exactly, but English was almost certainly not her first language. It was musical in a way that invited further listening.

“But you are Girolamo Riario? I know your name.” She’d gotten his name right, even giving it the Italian pronunciation so that it flowed like water from her lips. No one ever pronounced it properly, and it took him a moment to recover from the ridiculous pleasure it gave him. “You are a candidate—for my college. I mean, we are interviewing you.” She set down her coffee and extended her hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Girolamo Riario.”

This was an interesting development. “So you are from Imola College? I would very much like to talk with you about that. Perhaps I can buy you a coffee.” He nodded at the urns, a small smile playing on his lips.

Zita returned the smile. “Oh, I wouldn’t want you to have to be big spender like that.” Her voice was lovely and warm. “Certainly, we should talk. I will have to do my best to recruit you to our little campus, now that I have met you.” She looked at the clock that dominated the hallway. “Only I am due to my presentation shortly, so I will have to meet you afterward?”

Riario nodded, a rather courtly gesture, and asked about her subject.

“I’ve been working on the early modern African model of Christianity, and how it developed independently from Roman and Byzantine orthodoxy. Of course, no one here is really interested in the history of Africa, so I end up having to explain its influence on the early Renaissance in Italy.” She shrugged, a graceful gesture. “English speaking medievalists are quite Eurocentric, and so I have to appeal to their biases to get anyone into my presentations.”

Her tone was one of dry acceptance, and Riario felt his faults had been both catalogued and excused. “There are some interesting variations in the African telling of Bible stories, and some variations in religious observances, that were never adopted into the Catholic dogma. But they left traces in Western thought.”

Her hands, small and delicate, made deft gestures through the air. Riario had never thought about African Christianity, seemed like an unacceptably large gap in his education. “That sounds unusual. I would like to hear it.”

She made a dismissive face. “You don’t need to flatter me, Girolamo Riario. I know Ethiopian fasting rituals have no impact on your work. Yes,” she said, reading his expression. “I’ve heard about your re-colonialization work. The Venn diagram of my work and yours would be two circles that don’t touch.”

He couldn’t help it; he smiled.

So of course he went to her presentation. At first he excused it as a show of solidarity, of interest in a new acquaintance. To be honest, though, he was indulging in the pleasure of listening to her voice, noting the roundness of her vowels and the softness of the fricatives. The rich timbre of her voice was the aural equivalent of a glass of a particularly good red wine, complex and satisfying.

Before long, however, he found himself interested in her topic, the medieval fascination with the story of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. The version she told was unlike anything he had heard before, but he could recognize it as if it were a river that ran beneath the surface of the stories he did know.

“The men of the Bible certainly took their pleasures,” Zita said, her smile like the _sfumato_ expression of the Mona Lisa. “The canonical Western Christian Bible does very little with the meeting of King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, but believe me, in her homeland, we have many stories that at the very least _enhance_ the sexual reputation of a man who reportedly had 700 wives and 300 concubines.”

A laugh ran through the audience. In the back of the room Riario heard someone stage whisper, “The Bible I grew up with left out the Cialis.”

“The Queen had heard of King Solomon’s legendary wisdom; she probably had also heard stories about his voracious sexual appetite. Or perhaps she had a more direct experience of it. In any event, the stories claim that she negotiated a _détente_ ; he would not touch her without her permission, so long as she took nothing of value from his palace.” Zita paused to open a bottle of water that had been sitting on the podium.

“On the face of it, this particular condition makes no sense at all. The Queen had arrived with an enormous entourage, and lavish gifts for Solomon, all calculated to demonstrate her own wealth and prestige. There was no reason for him to do what amounted to pre-emptively accusing her of pocketing the dessert forks. So what is going on here?”

“I cannot see this as anything but a trap; it certainly has a fairy-tale like quality to it, don’t you agree? Red Riding Hood is warned not to talk to strangers, and of course she talks to the wolf. Bluebeard’s wife is warned not to go into one particular room, so of course she does. Now Solomon warns the Queen not to take anything of value from his palace, or he will sleep with her. We know this narrative pattern, what we don’t know is how it will play out.”

Riario realized he was leaning forward. He’d never thought this much about this particular story.

“It makes more sense if we consider it as a form of flirtation—a sort of intellectual romantic banter. Their first meetinghad started with the Queen posing riddles to Solomon during her formal reception. This could be more of the same: two charismatic and brilliant people testing their wits against each other. So this arrangement signals sexual interest. So much so that It would be at home in a modern rom-com.” She smiled; this was clearly a subject she enjoyed. “I like to think of it as the Biblical version of Lauren Bacall’s famous scene in _To Have and Have Not_. Solomon was basically saying ‘You do know how to whistle, don’t you? You just put your lips together and—blow.’”

She pursed her own lips, and Riario could not look away.

“So we have a set up where Solomon has indicated his interest, and it’s up to the Queen to either accept or decline. The ball is in her court, as it were; he has apparently given her the power over any future sexual relationship between them. Which is remarkably egalitarian as far as gender relations go, and signals their equal status as rulers. She has the dominant role, unless he can trick her into taking someting of value, thus negating the _detente_.”

She paused for a deep breath. “Of course, there would be no story unless the trap is sprung, correct? As I said, we know the shape of these stories. Solomon found his guest taking a drink of water. ‘You have broken our agreement,’ he told her, ‘because nothing in the desert is more precious than water.’” Zita’s dark eyes rested on Riario’s, and he found himself swallowing hard.

“What does this story mean? In various places in Africa, it constitutes an origin myth. The Queen did not disappear into Solomon’s harem with the other 700 wives and her lands were not absorbed into the Israelite’s territories. In several versions of this story, the Queen converted to Solomon’s religion and also gave birth to Solomon’s son, who could claim that relationship as a right to rule. It tells the story of how Judaism came to Africa.”

It wasn’t his field, she had been right, but Riario was far more engaged than he had been with the ugly baby speech.

“It enhances the power of the Jewish king, in that it represents an intellectual hegemony over distant lands. There are many meanings that can be ascribed: it has a different meaning for the African church than it has been given in the Eurocentric Roman Catholic tradition. So when the African Coptic church representatives appeared in Florence in the fifteenth century, the three branches of Christianity may have had similar stories, but they had radically different understandings of the meaning of those stories.”

*****

At the dinner that evening, Riario sought her out; they’d only managed to nod in passing, so he hadn’t had a chance to tell her how much he had enjoyed her presentation. “And I still owe you that coffee—or can I offer you a drink instead?”

Her smile was still brilliant and warmed him to his bones. “I would like that. I am going out with some of my friends from grad school; you are welcome to join us.”

So uncharacteristically, Riario found himself spending a late evening in a loud bar with a number of medievalists. Rock music boomed over the speakers, which also mysteriously managed to amplify the sound of a Mario Kart game played on a large screen television. Conversation was conducted just beneath the level of a yell.

“SO HOW DO YOU KNOW ZITA?” A dark haired woman leaned close to his ear. Zita had introduced her, but the name hadn’t survived its contest with the ambient noise. Was it Emily? Erin? He was fairly certain that she was at least one of the women sharing Zita’s hotel room.

“We met here at the conference,” Riario said. He was not a yeller.

“WE WERE IN SCHOOL TOGETHER, SHE IS THE GREATEST, ISN’T SHE?” Riario simply smiled and nodded, and she turned away from him to talk to Zita. Perversely, it was easier to hear voices that were not directed at him, so he was forced to overhear their conversation. 

“OH MY GOD ZITA HE IS SO HOT. THAT SMILE; HE’S EVEN GOT DIMPLES.” He was not going to let on that he heard that. But Zita looked at him and smiled, and that was enough.

It was only as they walked home in the early hours of the morning that he had any chance to talk to her alone. The theme of the evening had been vodka martinis, and those had effectively erased any interest he had in discussing serious topics.

Instead he felt fizzy, as if the blood in his veins had been replaced with champagne. It was a ridiculous feeling, like he was only lightly touching the earth. The streetlights threaded their glow through the darkness, surrounding the group in a warm halo that was of a piece with the spring night. Zita walked beside him, chatting with one of the other people in the group. Riario was free to simply enjoy the sight and sound of her. It was a pleasant way to spend time.

Back at the hotel, he invited her to his room for a nightcap. She accepted with a calm gravity. “I can’t invite you to my room,” she admitted. “I am sharing with three other women, and one of them has her presentation first thing in the morning and has asked not to be disturbed.” She smiled. “It is inconvenient, but it is the only way to make this conference affordable enough to attend at all.”

She told him this with a clear-eyed practicality he was learning was characteristic of her. “It’s an uphill battle to gain economic security as a woman of color in the liberal arts,” she said. “But for now, I’m doing interesting work, meeting interesting people. It pleases me. What pleases you, Girolamo Riario?”

He found a split of sparkling wine, already chilling in the tiny refrigerator, so he opened that and offered her a glass. “I am pleased to have met you, Zita.” He raised his water glass, fizzing with wine, and she toasted him from where she sat in the lone armchair.

As she sipped the golden wine, she smiled at him over the edge of the glass. She continued to smile as he crossed to where she sat, and when he leaned over her, she tilted her head up to meet his kiss.

It was utterly wonderful, and utterly unlike his recent experiences with Leo. Zita’s lips were full and soft, and everything about her was languid. Nothing at all like with Leo, when they both stoked a fierce desire; none of the battle for domination. Instead, kissing Zita was like safety; everything about it felt welcoming, accepting. Like what people meant when they said “coming home.” The kiss slowly infiltrated his senses: first the pillowy abundance of her soft lips, then the warmth of her mouth, the sensation of her gentle nibbles. The feeling invaded his head, spread through his body, warming him. He had nothing to prove, no escalation or domination was necessary. He could just exist in this timeless moment, his whole attention on the contact of their mouths. 

Zita kissed him so thoroughly, so completely, that he wasn’t sure if she stood under her own power, or if he had pulled her to him. He was only aware that they were standing together as she pulled back slightly, and ran her finger across his lower lip.

“I have to go back,” she whispered. It was all too soon. How long had it been? “My friends will worry.” He could barely process the words, his brain frozen. “I had a lovely evening,” she said, tracing his collarbones where they showed at the open neck of his shirt.

She smiled into his eyes, then slipped out the door. It clicked softly behind her, leaving him stunned and surprised.

The next morning, he was startled awake by an unusual sound. He’d been deep in a dream, something where his father was furious with him while his stupid fucking cousin Lulu was laughing at him. So he wasn’t unhappy at being awakened, but he was completely disoriented. The light was coming from a different direction than he was used to. This was not his usual bed, where was he? A second or two brought the answer; he was in a hotel room. Indeed, he was at a conference. But what was that sound?

It came again, a light tapping on the door. It startled him upright and gasping. “One moment” he called, still not clear on the situation. What time was it--could it be housekeeping already? He threw on his jeans from last night, and swept his hand across the top of his head to settle his hair, before cracking open the door.

“Good morning, sleepy.” Zita’s smile was languorous and graceful, and he could feel himself smiling in response. “If you get up now,” she looked up at him, “you might still be in time to get some breakfast before sessions start for the day.” Once again startled, he looked at the bedside clock: 7:45. Later than he had slept in years. “I was just heading down, you can meet me there if you’d like?”

He nodded, still confused by the morning, but clear now on his preferences. He would prefer to spend more time with Zita. “I would like that.”

To his surprise, Zita pushed lightly at the door, then reached her hand around the edge of it. Deftly, she pulled back, with the “Do Not Disturb” tag dangling off her finger. “I’ll put this out, so you aren’t caught by housekeeping either.” She ran her eyes down his bare chest, and her smile turned sassy. “It would make their day, though. Hurry up. I might even save you some eggs if you are down in fifteen minutes.”

He made it to the breakfast area with two minutes to spare, his hair still wet and his beard untrimmed. Zita’s smile granted him pardon for his sins, and he smiled back, unselfconsciously. They separated after breakfast, and Riario found himself thinking about kissing her again, and not at all inclined to listen to any more presentations. Instead he returned to his room and prepared for the interview scheduled for lunch.

*****

“Dr. Riario, good of you to come.” There were introductions; a heavy set woman in her late 40s, wearing a bohemian ensemble of scarves and beads, and an older man who looked remarkably like a Santa Claus, if Santa had sacrificed his beard in favor of a walrus mustache. These were the current director of the European Studies department and a professor emeritus. Four other women, including Zita, were sitting in as observers. Riario chose to introduce himself to them for the pleasure of shaking her hand and reveling in the brief touch.

“As you know, we are not searching for a strict medievalist, but rather someone who would be able to enrich our European Studies department while also serving in the political science department.” Stiff disapproval from the director; she wasn’t pleased to have to share an appointment. Riario made a mental note to investigate the relationship between the departments.

The interview went well, from his perspective. The scope of the position sounded promising, and his studies in medieval Italian meant he could easily teach Dante and Machiavelli courses in both departments. “And, since you have been living in Boston, maybe you won’t be surprised by our winter.”

The interview ended with them inviting him to come to campus --“we would be delighted to fly you out”--in order to continue the hiring process. “We can’t commit on behalf of the political science department, of course. Although they were very interested in your candidacy; you have a very distinguished CV and we are impressed with your range, Dr. Riario. You would be a welcome addition to our faculty.”

Another round of farewell handshakes before he left the room, and he managed to exit before looking at the small piece of paper Zita palmed into his hand at the end. “You can buy me a congratulatory drink,” with a time and a location. Of course he would.

Of course he did.

*****

She was leaving the next morning; her carpool was skipping the last half day of sessions to drive back to campus. He walked her to her hotel room again, then stood with her awkwardly. He could hear her roommates on the other side of the door, packing and giggling.

“I look forward to seeing you again soon,” he said. It wasn’t the right thing to say; it was too formal. He was often too formal, he knew, but it was at least completely accurate. He did want to see her again, and soon.

She looked at him with that disconcerting incisiveness. For a long moment, she stared into his eyes, and he could tell she was evaluating him, deciding something about his character that even he did not know the answer to. Then with a nod, she stepped back. “Look me up when you come to campus. I have plans.” And she strode off, leaving him to wrestle with the chaos she had already made of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will say it again--Zita deserved better than the show gave her. This is my attempt to give her a happier ending.


	12. Recruitment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riario returns to Boston, but leaves again; Leo and Zo converse. The future is arriving fast, but there are moments where it can be ignored.

Back in Boston, leaving the airport, was it really any surprise that his car seemed to drive of its own accord to Leo’s house? He rang the doorbell, no words planned, no words needed because Leo opened the door and his skin was pale and damp, his unruly hair standing on his head every which way, the way he always looked when he’d spent too long on a project and failed to eat or sleep. 

“Oh thank god you are here” Leo croaked, his voice rusty either from disuse or too much screaming in frustration at a project that had failed to come together the way he thought it should. He was wearing an oversized T-shirt that bagged open on his chest, victim of his habit of stretching out the neck when stuck on a problem. His pale skin and bare feet made him look achingly vulnerable and deeply desirable. With reckless speed, Riario crossed into the house and crowded Leo against the wall, hungry to feel that hot skin against his own, to devour those lips, to feel the lithe body beneath him.

Leo surrendered, pliant, welcoming Riario’s body pressed against his own. This was the narcotic he needed to slow his teeming brain. He whispered inchoate phrases: please, and yes, and Riario, whenever his lips were free of the hot kisses he gave and received. Then with a shiver, he pushed his shoulders away from the wall and dragged Riario further into the house, down the hall to his room.

When Nico arrived home that night, the front door was still open. “Hello?” He peeked cautiously into the front room, expecting to see a ransacked mess. All was quiet and looked the same as it had when he left for class that morning. He turned and closed the door behind him, checking that it latched.

*****

They don’t talk. Riraio neither confesses nor informs Leo about Zita, and they don’t talk about what they are to each other, nor what will happen when Riario leaves Boston at the end of the summer. This is the pattern of their addictive sexuality: the shape of Leo’s sulky lips pushes Riario into raw need. He can only suck them into his own mouth, to bite at them, to devour them. Leo’s body releases Riario’s habitual iron control over his physical desires, granting him a measure of freedom while they are together in bed. In response, Leo sinks gratefully, voluptuously, into their physicality, relieved for a few hours of the clatter of his own thoughts. 

They each elicit something in the other, something that makes the rest of their lives possible, bearable. But they don’t discuss it, or even examine it. It’s a lark, an indulgence, like Leo’s old habits of weed and ecstasy, a way of meeting a need that seems to never be fully satisfied. Time is passing, the year is nearly over. Riario knows that he will be leaving Boston in a matter of months, but he doesn’t really think about that. Leo probably knows, but has never raised it either.

For now, there are velvet lips and fingers digging into muscles and leaving bruises. Bedclothes are tangled and sweaty. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

Probably.

*****

The campus trip was arranged quickly; the position needed to be filled before September, which meant the decision had to be made before the faculty scattered to summer research and travels. “I am so sorry Dr. Riario,” the departmental administrator said over the phone, “I know this is terribly rushed, but is there any way you could be here on Tuesday?”

It was sooner than he anticipated, but of course he could go. The messages from his father were coming more frequently, demanding access to Leo, dictating his own future obligations, threatening to arrange Riario’s next move: an appointment to an influential senator, a position with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a role on a foreign policy or defense spending committee. Riario understood that the only way he could free himself of his father’s demands was by forging his own path. He had to remove himself from the centers of power that fed his father’s wealth. Recently, his need for independence had grown exponentially, in direct proportion to his unwillingness to turn Leo over to his father. He would go to great lengths to achieve this; a rushed trip was no sacrifice.

“Tuesday will be fine,” he assured the administrator; and immediately, his plane tickets were arranged for Monday. “We are quite a distance from the airport; we will have someone meet you and bring you to campus.” All this was fine. On his way to the airport, he made sure to turn off the location services on his phone. He wanted to make it a tiny bit more difficult for his father to track him.

*****  
Monday evening, there was a light tap on Leo’s door. He was, of course, deep into a program he was writing for a prototype robot. It was not complicated per se, but there were so many parts that interacted with each other, servos and gear ratios and differential speeds, measurements and algorithms that had to balance out and then be transferred to the language the computer understood to run the whole system. It was mechanics and engineering and programming and math, and he’d been working on it for days now and not sleeping. If he wouldn’t interrupt the project for his own physical needs, why would he answer the door?

But the knocking didn’t stop. It got louder, more insistent, and Leo could no longer stand the irritating sound on the inside of his skull.

“Go the fuck away!” It was an order, an insult, and Leo didn’t even care who was on the other side of that door, didn’t worry that anybody’s feelings might be hurt. 

“You’re lucky I can translate that, since what you meant to say was ‘come inside you gorgeous bastard and thank you for the beer.’” Zo grinned around the edge of the door, his smile as huge as ever, holding up a carrier with six bottles of beer so cold Leo saw the sweat condensing on the bottles.

Leo swore, but the conviction in his voice had gone. The beer was irresistible, and he was suddenly aware that he had no idea what time or day it was. He reached for one of the bottles, but Zo held it just out of reach.

“Ask me nicely, Leo. Say ‘I am a worthless dog’s pizzle, may I please have a beer?’”

Leo grabbed instead, and nearly snagged one. “Bite me,” he said, but there was a ghost of a smile in his voice. Zo radiated good humor as he danced the bottles just out of Leo’s grasp.

“Well, I would, if it was worth the effort. And if I wasn’t worried about getting a shiv from your boyfriend for doing it.” Zo’s eyebrows lifted, and his smile was genially lascivious. It worked to break Leo out of his obsessive mood, so he laughed. 

“Achievement unlocked,” Zo said, and offered his friend a bottle.

They clinked their bottles together, offered their standard toast. “To Sam Adams: brewer, patriot.” Long pulls, their lips wrapped around the cool shafts of glass, the wet sounds of their swallowing were intimate, sexy. The intimacy of brothers is different from the intimacy of lovers. The Venn diagram may overlap however.

Zo dandled the bottle on his thigh, looked around the room. “I haven’t been in here for a while,” he observed. “It used to always smell like sex and candy. I kind of miss that.”

“Yeah, well.” Leo rubbed his hand against the back of his neck. “I’ve been off the weed for a while.” He looked at the pages spread out around the room, dense with formulae and schematics. “Busy, I guess.”

Taking another long pull from the bottle, Zo avoided Leo’s eyes. “And your boyfriend is away this week. So I hear.”

No response was necessary, so Leo just sat quietly. He looked smaller somehow, diminished, his usual cockiness absent. This broke Zo’s heart, just a little, a small crack that he knew Leo would resent if he ever saw it. But Leo’d been missing in the household for a while now, and Zo couldn’t just let him disappear without making an effort to reverse the situation.

“So, tonight. It’s Monday, in case you lost track again. And since Mondays are bad enough by themselves, Nico declared it to be an abomination to cook for ourselves. So pizza’s going to be A Thing tonight. I thought I’d check in and see if I can pick up your portion and wipe out that debt of honor thing I still owe you.”

Leo’s mind was still mostly caught up in the problem of the gear assembly, so he was only half listening to Zo. Absently, he finished his beer, reached for another one.

Before he put it to his lips, Zo clinked bottles again. Oh, right. The ritual was for each drink. “To Sam Adams; brewer, patriot.” The feel of the bottle rattling in his hand brought Leo back. “Wait, what debt of honor? Zo, everybody knows you have no honor.”

Zo smiled, his teeth bright in the gloomy room, his dimples flashing. That was more like the old Leo, the reflexive teasing. “That bet we had, back in the winter. About your boyfriend. Remember?” Leo had forgotten, but was willing to listen to somebody talk to him about Riario.

“I met him on that convocation trip down to D.C., and made my interest, um, obvious.” Zo looked a little disconcerted. “Well, mostly obvious. I mean, we were in a public space at the time. There were limits. Anyway. I tried: made a move. He was ice cold, man. Not at home to my charms, if you know what I mean. Of course, that simply shows his appalling lack of discernment, if you ask me.” That cheeky grin crossed his face, and Leo found himself grinning back.

“I would say it demonstrated that he was a perceptive judge of character, myself.” Leo took another swig of the beer. It felt good, sitting here with his best friend, ragging on each other, drinking a decent beer, chilled to perfection. He hadn’t done much of this the last few months. “Still not hearing a bet here. Don’t see how Riario turning you down impugned your honor either.”

“I know you remember this, Leo. I came back from that trip, and told you about him. I mean, it’s not like I didn’t have plenty of success with other willing partners on that trip, right? But I couldn’t believe he’d turned me down.”

Leo smiled. “You have never underestimated your own personal charm, have you Zo?”

Another salute with the beer bottle. “Hell, no, and I’ll have you knew that I have numerous thank you notes, written on embossed stationery, to back me up!” Leo smiled, tipped his own bottle in tribute. “So we made one of our bets. Whether it was possible to get the lordly Riario into bed. I said you couldn’t do it. I said, ‘There is no way a red-blooded sodomite is going to turn me down but say yes to you, you useless faggot.’ So you took me up on it.” Zo swallowed again, the second bottle nearly empty already. “My bet was that he wasn’t into men at all, and you said, and I quote, ‘Doesn’t matter, he’ll be into me.’ “

Leo shook his head. “I do not remember this at all, Zo.” He tipped his head back, regarded his friend from under heavy eyelids. His shirt was open across his chest and his knees were splayed wide, his chair tipped back onto two legs. Zo swallowed, his mouth dry.

“Yeah, well then, fuck me for a virgin, coming in here and reminding you of a bet I lost.”

Leo grinned at his friend. He’d been in a foul mood, and Zo had made him feel better. “Well, you should have kept your damn mouth shut, and made me pay for my own pizza.”

Zo waggled his eyebrows, his own grin spread across his dark face. “Hey, at least it’s a pretty mouth. It usually gets me into the right kind of trouble. I have testimonials.”

*****

At first, Riario didn’t see the sign with his name on it. 

Thunderstorms had made the trip turbulent, and several times the passengers gasped collectively as the plane seemed to drop suddenly. Lightning arced across the clouds and raindrops slashed horizontally across the windows. The landing was equally harsh, the ungainly touch down and rapid deceleration threw him against the seatbelt. There would be bruises on his hips in the morning.

Once inside, the airport was larger than he expected, and the plane had been sent to a gate at the end of a very long terminal arm. He found himself walking past gate after gate, the promised exit an elusive goal, always retreating. It was frustrating and disorienting at the same time. Then, after turning a corner, there was a visual cacophony of stores and restaurants and monetary exchanges and coffee shops and he nearly missed the exit to the baggage claim level. 

“Seriously?” Why did he have to be herded like this through so many levels of a building he only wished to leave? And where was he possibly going to find the unfortunate student who had been assigned to meet him? He shifted the strap of the travel bag onto his shoulder and strode irritably through the automatic doors.

He didn’t see the sign because he saw her first. Zita had come to collect him instead of some anonymous undergraduate, and the day suddenly improved. 

He offered her a customary one-armed academic hug in greeting, calculatedly platonic, an illusion of warmth. “What a pleasant surprise, Zita. I never expected it would be you to meet me.” It was the same exquisitely curated courtesy he had been trained to exhibit, a performance of good manners.

Zita took a step back and looked at him. She looked at him and she looked through him. Her eyes narrowed, as she stared straight into his eyes, leaving him with the unmistakable feeling that he had made a terrible error. Somehow, he had offended her. Her face was still as marble, her exquisite cheekbones framing the intelligent eyes that bore into his. He found himself breathing shallowly, holding still, waiting for whatever was going to happen next.

Then she smiled. The bright beam was blinding, almost enough to disguise how her eyes had softened, an expression of not quite pity. It was some softer, more empathetic emotion, and then it was gone before he could identify it.

“Do you have your bags? Then come with me. I hope they fed you on the flight, or would you like to stop somewhere? I do know some places here that are pretty good food for prices that are acceptable for impoverished academics.” The smile remained, but the expression in her eyes was open, uncalculating, accepting. The invitation seemed genuine.

He was, oddly, uncertain. What he wanted was to spend more time with her, he realized. What he didn’t know was how to ask for it without being offensive. 

“How far is it to campus? I suspect you probably haven’t eaten. Allow me to buy you lunch. You may choose the location, but it has to be very good.” He looked at her, with all the sincerity he could muster in his gaze. Please let me be kind to you. She looked him full in the face, her eyes wide, and she nodded.

*****

She found a place that she said was well respected locally. “It’s Italian,” she said. “It seems thematically appropriate.”

They were seated in a dining area that was raised slightly higher than the rest of the restaurant, in front of a full wall painted with a mural: stylized people at a waterfront bistro. The scale was larger than life, muscular people clad in vaguely mid-century clothing, their bodies distractingly curvy, voluptuous. Round breasts and buttocks, well shaped thighs, red lips and hourglass figures loomed over Zita’s head and dwarfed her entirely. Riario smiled mirthlessly: La Dolce Vita, the promise that life could be bigger and more tempting somewhere else was literally overwhelming. Of course, none of the figures in the mural had been presented with a bill. In his experience, pleasures inevitably required payment, and money was so rarely the compensation demanded.

Once again, he refused to consider what that meant for his life with Leo.

Zita sat back in her chair, quietly observing him as his eyes skimmed the mural behind her. He had obviously trained himself not to betray emotions; paradoxically his face was quite mobile but impossible to read. She watched as his eyes traced the mural from one figure to the next, and he seemed on the verge of a smile that he then arrested, his lips tightening into a line, then relaxing into an upturned curve that was too sad to be called a smile. She did not doubt that he connected emotionally to this painting, but not in a pleasant way. Possibly even against his will. She always wondered if the mural referenced a real location; now she wondered if it was possible that Riario recognized it. There was something wry in his expression like he was looking at something both familiar and disappointing. 

“This mural reminds me of Michelangelo,” she offered, unfolding the heavy linen napkin into her lap. “The loose, cartoon like bodies he painted on the Sistine Chapel look kind of like this, especially when you look at them from the ground and can’t zoom in to see them too closely.” She smiled, lifted a shoulder, as if in apology for her interest in art. “They’re really monumental, all those Sistine nudes. I mean, they’re supposed to be anatomically accurate—Michelangelo dissected corpses, did you know? It took special papal dispensation I think. But so many of his figures don’t actually look human to me. I think they look like mountains carved into vaguely human shapes. Huge.” She gestured over her shoulder at the looming figures of the mural behind her. “Like these people, their proportions aren’t wrong exactly, but they aren’t really right either. Like they live larger lives than the rest of us do.”

“Us fallen mortals, you mean,” he said. His voice cracked her heart, and made her wonder if the expression in his eyes was pain. Had he had some bad experiences at the Sistine Chapel? She searched his face for a moment, then gave him a quiet smile. 

“Exactly. Like, here we are, puny humans who actually have to eat food and do things just to survive, while they are up there—“ she gestured with a graceful turn of her head, invoking the figures of the painting, “and they are just better at life than we are. They dress better than we do, they stand more gracefully, they flirt more alluringly.” She smiled a little more, a wry twist to her lips. “It’s a lot to have to compete with, or even try to live up to.” 

She saw Riario’s eyes widen, and his expression softened as he turned away from the mural to look at her. She felt her breath become shallow. Those dark eyes seemed huge in his elegant face, and the intensity of his attention focused entirely on her melted her bones. Once again, she became aware of her own body, a feeling she had experienced with him before, back in Michigan. 

But she had learned a lot about him, observing him then. She had seen his punctilious politeness, his habitual remove from his surroundings. He had broken that remove with her, once, with that kiss. It was back again, however, as complete as if they were strangers, as if that kiss had never happened. Either he didn’t know what his nearness did to her, or he didn’t care. The first she could work with, the second would be insurmountable. So she swallowed carefully, and did her best to ignore the swirling heat that was settling like molten liquid in her lower belly. She could be patient, she could watch him for signs of interest. Still, it was with effort she managed to sit still beneath his searching gaze, breathing quietly, in and out.

Riario looked from the louche figures of the mural back to Zita, compact and tidy, looking small and fragile in contrast. Her words echoed in his ears. “A lot to compete with. . .or try to live up to.” He knew that feeling well, and hearing it from her made him suddenly regret his cold greeting back at the airport. If she understood this feeling, she might be an ally. Or possibly a friend. He didn’t have much experience with friends at this point in his life. He scanned her expression, looking for confirmation of this insight.

The silence between them lengthened, but oddly, it was not strained. The longer she sat in silence with him, the more certain he was that she did not hold expectations. Which meant that he wouldn’t be punished for disappointing her. She held his gaze, looking calmly back at him, apparently perfectly comfortable in the absence of conversation, willing to accept what he offered, but not pushing for him to reveal himself either. 

At that he felt a tension in his neck muscles release; a tension he hadn’t realized he held, not until it left. This is what she did to him, he remembered, back in Michigan. She slipped around him, buoying him up like water. He smiled at her, and then the waiter arrived and the flurry of ordering eased both of them.

The menus were removed, wine was poured, and a bread basket was delivered with a cruet of olive oil. “Anyway, I should fill you in on the process.” Zita smiled, and Riario relaxed even further. “The search has been going on all year, and we’ve already had a handful of candidates come in for the meet-and-greet.” Zita looked up at him, her dark eyes enormous beneath her delicate lashes. “I don’t think the faculty were much impressed. Not that I’m on the hiring committee, so this isn’t inside intel, but I staff the department, and not everybody stops talking when the fresh coffee gets delivered to the meeting room.” The smile was replaced with a serious expression. “I think they were going to restart the search next fall, when your CV came in.” 

This was good news. This meant that the job was real, they were seriously considering him, so the dynamics shifted to his advantage. They wanted him enough that they re-opened the consideration process. They would be courting him, and he could have the luxury of evaluating whether this was a place that he wanted to be. Could he imagine living here? Could he imagine Leo here? 

At that, his brain stumbled a bit. He hadn’t actually considered the question of a future with Leo; whether it was possible, whether either of them wanted it. With practiced ruthlessness, he pushed those thoughts aside as “currently unanswerable and thus irrelevant.”

Zita saw thoughts flickering behind Riario’s eyes, how quickly he comprehended his status, and then assessed the situation, evaluated his resources, immediately worked out how to turn information to his advantage. It was both dangerous and exhilarating, like watching a predator reflexively hunt. Zita noticed the muscles in his jaw working as he considered his next move, and she indulged herself in looking at him as he thought. 

To be honest with herself, not only was he a very handsome man, he was a dangerous mix of all her favorite man-tropes. The dark eyes hidden under the long fringe of hair had tripped all her circuits for “angsty and artistic”; his long and delicate fingers reinforced the appeal. His carefully groomed beard edged his strong jaw and framed his lips in a way that made her own lips itch to touch him. And the long line of his torso beneath his crisp oxfords had pinged that combustible mix of respectable and sensual that was her personal sexual kryptonite.

So yes, she had been attracted to him in Michigan, and now the chances were good that she’d have the chance to see a lot of him, if he was hired into this job. Seeing him again made it clear that she was very interested in seeing all the rest of him. 

All this went on as she watched his face, as he started to speak, but then caught himself as a melancholy smile edged across his mouth instead. It was something she’d seen him do before, a trick to give himself a chance to consider his words before he spoke. She wondered what in his life had trained him to be so very careful in conversation.

*****

When they stepped out of the restaurant, it was already dark. 

“I guess this is a place that is dedicated to a truly Italian experience.” Zita pulled the valet ticket out of her wallet and turned it over to the white-shirted man at the podium. “Except the waiters did not disappear mid-way through. That was such a problem for me, the first time I went to Italy. Until I learned how to ask for the bill, I thought they just expected the diners to stay through to their next meal.”

Riario smiled. “The Europeans don’t generally seem to be concerned about turning tables over, that is true.” 

The drive to campus took over an hour, mostly through unlighted countryside. The small car sped along dark roads, while the two of them sat in a bubble of quiet sounds and the glow of the dashboard. Their voices dropped in volume as the miles passed, cocooned in a space that was oddly timeless.

Riario could see nothing of the landscape; it was so dark everywhere. The few outposts of light and activity were gas stations and restaurants, or farms with yard lights that illuminated a portion of a house or a barn, the insides dark as if the inhabitants had already gone to bed in order to rise with the sun. A radio station murmured music at a volume just below audibility. 

Zita’s smile was invisible in the dark, but he could hear it in the timbre of her voice. “I love driving at night. There is something so cozy about it. It’s like I have this association with it, something I was too young to actually remember, riding in the back seat, my parents talking to each other quietly while I started to fall asleep. When we got home, my dad would carry me into the house and put me to bed.” She looked over at Riario, “it just makes me feel safe.”

With that, she sliced him open and healed him at the same time. Riario had no fond memories of riding with parents, of being safe in the dark, of being carried and cared for. His father, Alessandro, always had a driver and sat in the back seat. Riario could not actually conjure up any specific memory of riding with his father other than sitting on a jump seat facing backwards, and those were not comfortable enough to fall asleep on, even assuming that Alessandro would have tolerated such lax behavior on his part. No wonder Riario had such a deep-seated need to drive himself any place he went.

“Zita, I really appreciate that you are the one who came to pick me up today.” He struggled with the language of gratitude; he had never really learned it. “I don’t usually do well as a passenger. I have some bad memories, to be honest. But today, with you, I am seeing that it is possible to relax and just be driven. So thank you.”

In the dark of the unilluminated countyside, Zita was hard to discern from the dark that surrounded her. He could hear her rustling, smell the spicy scent of her skin, and could sense the sadness of her smile in her words. “Of course, Girolamo Riario. Welcome to Imola.”


	13. Behind Every Door Is A Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nico thinks all bad decisions are ultimately Leo's fault. He might be right. Not all of Leo's decisions are good ones. Riario continues to pursue his escape plan.

Leo looked around the table, which was covered with opened pizza boxes and crumpled paper napkins. Nico was stretched out in his chair, his legs splayed out in front of him and his hands clasped over his belly.

“Oh god, why did I eat so much pizza?” he groaned, his eyes closed in his pale face.

“It’s not the amount of pizza, Nico. It was the speed you ate it.” Vanessa was arranging her silverware on her plate; of course she ate pizza with a knife and fork, carving delicate bites and savoring each one. “You had a whole pizza to yourself, it’s not like you had to eat it before Zo did.”

Nico opened one eye, and glared at her. “I was hungry! This is Leo’s fault.”

Leo looked up in surprise. “ _My_ fault? How is the fact that you scarfed an entire pizza in under twenty minutes _my fault_?”

This time, Nico didn’t even bother opening an eye. He just hung his head over the back of his chair and addressed his words to the ceiling. “Well, we had to wait for you before we ordered, didn’t we? We had to lure you out of your den. . .” 

Vanessa smiled. “You do make excellent bait, Zo.” 

Zo made a half bow from his seat. “You are welcome.”

“ . . .and then we had to wait for him to _decide_ what he wanted, and then he went and ordered the gluten-free crust, which _always_ takes longer. . .” 

“Does it? I mean, I suppose it could, but it couldn’t possibly take longer than that deep dish pizza casserole mess that Zo likes.” Leo got that look in his eye, the one that meant he’d discovered a problem that might be interesting to work on.

“. . .plus you drank all my beer before you even came out. . .” 

Leo swung around to glare at Zo. “That was Nico’s beer?” Zo looked sheepish, which was as good as a confession. “Nico, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t ask. I guess I should have—that was good beer, and Zo never buys the good stuff.”

“. . .so we had to go get more anyway, so we should have just picked up the pizza too, but _somebody_ had already ordered delivery, which takes twice as long. . .” 

Vanessa looked a bit offended at that point. “I didn’t know you were out of beer, Nico, because one, _I_ wasn’t the one who drank it, and two, _you_ aren’t twenty-one yet so it shouldn’t have been _your beer_ anyway.” She looked across the table at Leo and Zo, who were both suddenly very interested in looking anywhere else but back at her.

Leo stage whispered out of the side of his mouth “Did you buy beer for Nico, Zo?”

Zo studied the grain of the table intently. “No, you know I never have money for the good stuff. It must have been Julian.”

“Of course! That makes sense. Julian likes the good stuff and he doesn’t notice the price. Yup. It was totally Julian.” Leo risked a peek at Vanessa, then started folding a paper napkin to keep his fingers busy.

“. . .so the point is that by the time the pizza finally arrived. . .”

“You know, we could make up a chores chart and post it on the refrigerator. And the first chore will be ‘ordering the damn pizza’ and I will make sure that my name is NEVER in that slot.” Vanessa was huffing, but that was how she performed exasperation. Leo knew she was laughing at them, but didn’t want to show it. “Getting the three of you to make decisions is harder than herding cats.”

“. . .I was too hungry so I ate it too fast and now I am dead.”

Zo looked pointedly at the empty bottles arranged at Nico’s place. “If you think it’s bad now, mate, wait until all that beer makes the pizza crust in your belly swell up. Leo, did you hear about that guy from Amherst whose stomach exploded when he drank beer after eating too much pizza?”

Nico lifted his head from his chair long enough to focus his bleary eyes on Zo. He threw a wadded up paper napkin, and then collapsed back into his semi-supine position. “I hate all of you.”

Vanessa stood up and carried her dishes to the kitchen. She gave Nico a pat on his golden curls as she passed. “You’ll be fine. Go sleep it off. That’s the only cure for a food coma.”

Leo began stacking up the cardboard boxes, as Nico lurched to his feet. “You know what else we haven’t done in too long? Poker night. Andrea’s cup of change has cobwebs on it—d’ya think he’d come up and play a few hands?”

Nico called over his shoulder as he trudged to his room. “Not tonight. I have a headache. Do it tomorrow.” The door closed softly behind him.

*****

Riario’s first interview was held in a conference room in the political science department, and Riario could sense the tension as soon as he walked in. The political science dean acted as host, and made the introductions: two senior faculty from the European Studies department; two faculty in addition to the dean from the political science department; a medievalist from Art History; and the obvious outlier, a young man from the finance department.

With that information, the situation snapped into focus, and Riario had control of the room. Alessandro had taught him how to trace the lines of power in a group; to recognize the insiders from the outsiders, to track who was dissatisfied and to find out why. Riario read this group like a book.

The position was a “joint appointment,” but the implied collaboration had been a directive from the finance department, which was why the finance guy was there. That meant what had been two, possibly three, different positions had been collapsed into a single one. There was built-in resentment about even filling this spot, because the faculty hoped the failure of a joint appointment would mean the restoration of the old positions.

This didn’t mean that the assembled academics had anything resembling a strategy; Riario fully expected a pervasive reluctance to even participate. Ordinarily, that would be enough to torpedo the search. They would simply fail to agree that any of the candidates were suitable. What the academics weren’t thinking about, however, was the role of their common enemy, the finance guy.

He was young, younger than any of the other people at the table, other than the actual students. He had a glossy sheen to him: thick hair, expensive watch, well cut suit. Riario guessed his M.B.A. was less than five years old. He was looking at the college as a business. So failure of this joint appointment process would never mean reinstating multiple tenure track positions. Instead it meant a series of one-year adjunct appointments, recent graduates with no path to permanent employment. The faculty’s hopes were dreams that would never materialize.

His long fingers twitched; he had the reins of this mismatched team in his hands, and he could see just how to give this one a bit more slack, how to rein that one in, to encourage this other one. To make each one of them feel that Dr. Girolamo Riario was the best appointment for their department, and the others would have to accept it.

Alessandro would have admired it, if he hadn’t had so much contempt for academia.

He smiled. Machiavelli understood these kind of situations, and Riario understood Machiavelli. They didn’t know it yet, but this committee was going to hire him. 

*****

Leo was running late, as usual, for a meeting with one of his advisors. But there was no way he was going to be any use if he didn’t have more coffee in him. It occurred to him that maybe he needed to stop working these marathon days, getting by on only catnaps.

Maybe he was getting a little too old to keep abusing his body this way.

He was drinking the scalding coffee, trying to shove his wallet back into his messenger bag, and pushing out through the exit when the brunette entering the shop asked, “Leo? Leo da Vinci?”

She held the door for him, then stood back to look at him. “It is! You are Leo da Vinci, aren’t you?”

Whoever she was, she was better dressed than the general student population, and her hair was truly glorious--glossy ringlets that fell across her shoulders. Leo prided himself on remembering faces, but this one was a little out of context. They had met before, not very long ago, but not on campus surely. . . .

“Lucrezia! Lucrezia. . .Donati! You are Riario’s cousin!” He snapped his fingers as the memory slid into place. “We met at that charity gala. Only time I have ever worn a tuxedo.”

She smiled, and Leo had to admit she had a fabulous bone structure. Softer than Riario’s, and one he knew he would draw.

“Yes, and we hardly got an opportunity to talk. I would like to correct that. Do you have time?” She seemed to take in his slapdash appearance. “Oh, no, of course not. Well, I would love to get to know you better.” She offered him a business card, but his hands were still full and he couldn’t take it. She reached around his waist, and slipped it into the back pocket of his jeans. “I’d love to buy you dinner, Leo. Are you free tonight? Let me know what time would work for you.”

She was disturbingly close, standing with her face next to his, almost too close to focus on. The business card seemed to burn in his pocket, reminding him that her hands had been that close to his ass. She was a beautiful woman and she had managed to confuse his senses. He nodded and suddenly she was gone, already inside the coffee shop.

It did not occur to him that the encounter wasn’t a coincidence. 

*****

For the afternoon presentation, Riario gave his lecture on “Intra-national colonialization of marginalized populations; race and class in America.” It was designed to impress the political science department, and had gone very well. The question and answer period had run twice as long as scheduled, and a large number of students had remained for the informal coffee hour afterwards. Riario had graciously stayed until all the students had run out of both food and questions. 

On the drive back to the hotel, Zita laughed delightedly. “That went splendidly! I hope they weren’t too exhausting for you. I saw how you got swarmed after your speech. They were like puppies trying to climb all over you.”

Riario stretched as much as he could in the cramped car. “They weren’t too bad. Hard to remember that I was ever that young though.”

Zita glanced at him. Even in the afternoon sunlight, his hair and beard were deeply black and accentuated the sharply carved cheekbones. “No, I agree. It’s hard to imagine you were ever that young.”

As the car approached the inn, Riario offered. “We have about three hours. Would you like to come in, join me for a drink?”

“No, thank you. I have a class to teach in about fifteen minutes, but I’ll be back to pick you up for the dinner.” She looked him over and smiled. “No need to change: there’s nothing in town that requires anything fancier than that.”

He had tempered his usual black a bit, and was wearing a pearl grey tailored shirt with a slightly darker tie, a soft jacket with a muted check, and black dress pants. “You don’t think I’ll be mistaken for one of the students?”

“Not in a million years.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. He was pleasantly surprised; they hadn’t even touched since the awkward hug at the airport. “I’ll be back at seven. See you then.” 

*****

Leo retrieved the business card that afternoon and texted her. The meeting with the advisor had not gone well. In fact, it had been a trap, sprung on him without warning. Sure, he had a lot of unfinished coursework, but everybody knew that was how he worked. They had known that when they admitted him, and it had been his _modus operandi_ for the last three years. There was no reason it should be urgent all of the sudden, and his advisor hadn’t been able to explain it either. He was irritated and jittery, uncomfortable in his own skin and aware that his thoughts were starting to speed up.

Ordinarily, Riario would have been his drug of choice, but Riario was out of town. However, Lucrezia was here. Why not text her? Get to know the family, maybe learn something about him. At the very least, he could likely hear Riario’s name be mentioned; a pale substitute for the man himself, but as good as he was going to get for now.

She took him to a vegetarian sushi place, and apologized for the informality. “I remembered you were vegetarian when Giro ordered plates for the gala. I’m afraid this isn’t as elegant as I would have liked.”

It was like all the sushi restaurants Leo knew, with clean lines and spare furnishings. “Oh, I like them like this; the decor doesn’t overwhelm the food.” He smiled. “No need to apologize.”

She ordered sake, and settled herself in her chair. “So tell me,” she murmured, “how long have you and Giro been dating?”

The sake kept coming, in handmade ceramic bottles, and Lucrezia made sure his glass was never empty. The sushi was well prepared, and the evening wore on without Leo realizing just how much time was passing.

“You are a really good listener,” Leo slurred, as Lucrezia topped off his glass. “But I should be asking about you. How exactly are you related to Riar. . .Giro?” He corrected himself, wondering if he liked that name better.

“Oh, that’s not terribly interesting,” Lucrezia waved her hand in dismissal. “Our fathers are twins. No, I’m more interested in what you are doing at Harvard. I might have thought you would be happier at a more technical school?”

Leo waved down the waiter, and asked for some paper napkins. “No, I’ll show you. I’m an artist too. I’m doing both, you see? Engineering and art. They have a lot to do with each other.” He dug in his pocket for the charcoal pencil he kept there. “I mean, just as a practical matter, I have to be able to draw to draft my inventions, and eventually for patent applications I’ll need that.”

The waiter dropped a small stack of square napkins from the bar. “See, but I also like to draw people. May I?” He sat, pencil poised over the napkins, waiting for Lucrezia’s consent. At her nod, he bent over, fingers flying, laying down the lines he’d been seeing in his mind all night. Her eyes, large and luminous, the slim perfection of her straight nose, the gentle curve of her lips, the smooth planes of her cheeks. She was very different from Riario: he was a study of contrasts, his pale skin and dark beard, the carved cheekbones and liquid eyes. Lucrezia was altogether softer, all her elements blended into a harmony very different from the starkness of her cousin. With just charcoal, it was not easy to capture the way her skin glowed softly, the subtle gleam of her brown hair. No matter, all Leo really aimed to do now was to capture a decent likeness, to impress her with his talent. He could go back later, recreate this sketch on better paper, with more finesse.

Lucrezia contemplated him as he bent over the table. Fair play to Giro, she could understand why he was apparently obsessed with this intense artist. She’d felt his eyes on her all evening, and it was definitely compelling to be the focus of that attention. Perhaps he’d been planning to sketch her all along? A smile lifted the corners of her mouth, and Leo happened to look up in time to catch the expression. He made a small moan of pleasure, and bent immediately to capture it.

So just how bisexual was he, then? He clearly had an appreciation for the female form. She preened a bit; she’d never been anyone’s muse before. 

*****

During the faculty dinner, Riario worked the room. He was good at it, and he could feel the same tingle of power running through his fingers he’d felt at the first interview that morning. He could read these people and they were soft. They had flowed mostly unimpeded through their lives, moving without much opposition from their undergraduate studies, through graduate school, into their tenured positions. They might think they played academic politics as a deadly game, but they had no idea. They had never met anyone like Alessandro della Rovere.

Riario had been honed into a political weapon by his own father, trained to locate weaknesses in order to exploit them. He could see the small gestures of deference, of defiance, could tell who was respected and who was disliked. He could—so easily—assess who were the power brokers, and who was being gently eased out of the main channel of campus life. Alessandro used these skills to accumulate power, or for the malicious fun of putting people under his thumb. Alessandro would have considered these people like sheep, soft and ripe for culling.

It was precisely the softness that Riario found so beguiling. Academia was something his father literally could not care less about, so constant vigilance was not required. Here, he too might be able to relax. He might be able to float, as they did, on the same currents of kindness. It was an appealing future he could envision for himself here.

And there was also Zita.

She had been seated too far away from him to talk with her, but he’d been able to see her, watch the way she spoke earnestly to the people around her. Frequently, she looked up and straight into his eyes. Each time, he felt the spot burn where she had kissed his cheek.

During the meal, talk turned to languages, and Riario had defended his study of medieval Italian—“Tuscan, really, at the time. The language of Dante of course, and the basis for modern Italian.” He looked around at the group that had gathered near him, most of them in their late 40s and 50s. “How many of you studied Latin?” There was a modest shuffle; no one actually raised their hands, but there was a sizable number of them who had to admit to studying the dead language. “So, you understand the principle. Study the foundations to understand the structure.”

“But you are fluent in Italian? Modern Italian, I mean. You could teach language and literature courses?”

“ _Certemente, signora. Ho familgia in Italia_. _Mi chiamo Girolamo Riario, si?_ ”

He was performing charm for the faculty, who wanted to like him, and he made it easy for them to do so. The problem of staffing their departments—well, yes, it was not ideal that they would be sharing this particular appointment, and they would prefer to have their own full time professor, but Dr. Riario was certainly a nice fit, and that would make this particular drain on their attention just _go away_. Summer was looming, and really, it would be nice to be able to leave for the summer research knowing that they had solved the problem of who would be teaching those fall courses. They wouldn’t have to keep going to hiring meetings. Instead they could concentrate on the article, the book, the grant that had been shuffled aside. It took up so much _time_ , and time that could be better – _more productively_ —spent.

Riario knew how to gently prod those sore spots. “What are you working on now? Oh, where is that research taking you? Spending the summer with the galley proofs of the book? Yes, I know how time consuming that is; my own book has been accepted for publication.” The subtext that wound through his conversation was how much more _pleasant_ it would be to let this new hire carry some of the teaching burden, leaving senior faculty free to spend time in their field. He touched on teaching schedules, on the burden of grading, on the drudgery of teaching the introductory courses again and again. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could just pass that tedious chore off to me, his eyes said, his questions insinuated. If you hire me, you can stop worrying about freshman courses and the mountains of essays to be graded, you can devote yourself to the luxury of several months without administrative duties. You won’t have to come back in the fall to another pile of resumes and CVs, to sit through those arguments with the jerks from political science or the wooly headed naïfs of the European Studies department. It would be so nice to just not worry any more.

It was heady, how easy this was. How different it was from his life in Boston; from the future mapped out by his father. And throughout it all, Zita floated, never calling attention to herself, but like the bright thread of gold through a tapestry, her spicy scent spiking the room, her quiet movement a whisper that thrummed in his ears. She was never absent, and he was able to track her presence through the room without conscious effort. She just seemed to be always tickling the edges of his attention, her intelligent eyes watching him, her kiss burning on his cheek.

She was stealing into his senses, he was aware of her scent, he found himself noticing the curve of her cheek, the way her cheekbones lifted her eyes and made them look merry, the soft line of her lips. He felt buoyed by her presence, she seeped into his consciousness like water through cracks in a vessel. She surrounded him, he all but breathed her, like a fish in water, he moved in her regard. She felt like home was supposed to feel. He could imagine a future like this, surrounded by kindness and safety. There were no threats here, no need to dominate in order to avoid being subjugated. He could simply live.

The evening was a success, he could feel it in every cell of his body. He could not fail at anything tonight. Nothing he asked for would be denied. Not even Zita.

“Come up with me,” he whispered in the car as she drove him back to the inn. “Stay with me tonight.”

The street lights shifted across her profile as she concentrated on driving. “Don’t you have a presentation to worry about?”

“ _Ho scritto una storia d’amore senza inizio e senza fini, per scriverla con te._ ” She had kept her distance from him; the close quarters of her small car made her very aware of his presence. “ _Sommergimi di carezze fino a farmi affogare._ ” The liquid sound of Italian and his urgent tone combined to make her realize just how much she did not want to drive away. The inn was in front of her, all she had to do was park.

Riario saw the flutter of her eyelashes, the slight rolling up of her eyes, the hesitation in her breath. “Come with me, _tesoro mio_.”

And that was it: the decision was made. Slightly dazed, she followed him through the paneled lobby. Some other time, she might have noticed the antique furnishings or the period wall coverings. Instead, she could only focus on Riario, the way his broad shoulders filled the stairway, the way his slim waist nipped in, the elegant line of his hand as he fitted the key into the lock. He reached for her, and smoothly as a dancer, he pulled her into the room, then spun her back against the door. He stood close—so close—his eyes dark under his bangs, the full length of his body hovering an inch away from hers, yet not touching. So close that a deep breath, the tiniest movement, would bridge that gap between them, a gap that crackled with electricity. His long fingers, those precise instruments, hovered over her neck and jaw.

She could barely breathe, her body thrumming with intoxication. His breath whispered across her ear. “The story you told, back in Michigan, about Solomon and the Queen of Sheba. Do you remember?” Her nod was fractional at best. “There is nothing in the desert as precious as water, _tesoro mio. Sei come l’acqua nel deserto_.” 

*****

“Leo, honey, you’ve had too much to drink. I can’t just leave you like this.” That was funny, since he didn’t _feel_ drunk. He felt light, frivolous and a little decadent, well fed and warm. Lucrezia had praised his sketch of her, and he had presented it to her with a promise to follow it up in a more permanent medium.

The ground seemed to skim beneath his feet, and although it was far from warm—April nights in Cambridge could still feel like winter—the bitter harshness was gone from the air, replaced by a strangely soft version of the usual cold. Lucrezia’s words echoed in his head; “I can’t just leave you like this. _I can’t just leave you like this._ ”

“Don’t leave me then. Come home with me.” He swung himself around a parking meter, so he could face her. “Come home with me and don’t leave me like this.”

“Leo, don’t be ridiculous.” She dodged around him, in order to direct him to her car, which was one over from where he was standing. “Get in and settle down.” She guided him in, one hand on his head to keep it from hitting the door frame.

Watching her shift through the gears was especially attractive, Leo realized. He enjoyed the way the muscles in her thighs moved beneath her skirt as she maneuvered the car across town. Time had slowed down, and he couldn’t hear the thrumming of his thoughts. Perhaps that was a family trait, the ability to calm his head? It was blessedly peaceful, and perhaps that was why he could notice the way her short skirt lifted and fell as she worked the pedals, the way she palmed the gear stick. He had noticed Riario driving this same way, once upon a time. Was this another family trait, perhaps?

He realized he was drunk, and that he had missed being drunk, these past months; it felt right to be rediscovering this feeling in the company of such a beautiful woman. He must have fallen asleep—blame the fact he’d been up for far too many hours now—and when he awoke, the car was parked in an underground garage he didn’t recognize. He was fairly certain there wasn’t one at his house in Cambridge.

“No, I brought you to my place.” Lucrezia circled the car, opened his door. “I told you I didn’t feel right leaving you like that.”

This was fine; this was better than fine. He was going to Lucrezia’s place, and he could learn the lines of her face and the curves of her body with his eyes and hands, and draw her—paint her—later. He’d promised her a better picture, after all.

Lucrezia helped him out of the low-slung car; it provided an excuse for touching him. He was quite well built—she could feel the hardness of his body even through his winter coat. Once in the elevator, she slid up against him, slipping her arms inside his jacket and around his waist.

Obligingly, he leaned back against the wall and pulled her against him. “Such a mysterious smile you have,” he murmured. “It comes and goes.” He tipped her head up, and gazed at her lips. “Wonder if I can catch it.” He dipped his head and swarmed her mouth with kisses. 

*****

Dizzy with touch, Zita let her head fall back against the door, as Riario kissed down her neck. His tongue danced from her ear to her collarbones, and she wanted to taste his skin the same way.

When he came up to her lips again, she slipped her fingers inside his collar to touch him with her fingertips. “Such lovely skin,” she whispered. “I want more of it.”

At that, Riario stood back and stripped off his shirt with more violent efficiency than he had ever done anything in his life. Bare chested, he pulled her off her feet, then dove into a kiss as fiercely as a raptor landing on prey. He lifted her into his arms, forcing her to wrap her legs around him, greedily devouring her mouth, one hand hiking up her skirt and running up her thigh. He carried her to the bed and sat, holding her in his lap and filling his hands with her skin.

With a chuckle, she pushed him away—gently—and stood up. He propped himself on his elbows to watch her.

Zita took in the sight for a moment. The muscles of his chest were hard and ropey; not the meaty flesh of a weight lifter, but the lean molded density of someone who used his body efficiently. She let her eyes crawl down his body, to the shadow that ran from his navel toward his groin and disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. She wanted to run her tongue down that groove, to feel the flutter of his belly beneath her mouth. She licked her lips involuntarily as she unbuttoned her shirt and stepped out of her pencil skirt.

“Does this please you?” she asked, as she unfastened her bra.

He peered up at her from beneath his bangs, and slowly smiled.

It all but knocked the breath out of her. God, she _wanted_ him. She stepped forward and reached for his belt buckle. 

*****

Lucrezia was nothing like her cousin; Leo was making the hazy realization. Riario clashed, confronted him, muscled his way forcefully in Leo’s arms. Leo had gotten used to the aggressive physicality of Riario; the way they grappled and dominated each other.

In contrast, Lucrezia seemed ephemeral, insubstantial as mist. She seemed to _hover_ in front of him, drawing him on, out of the elevator and down the hallway, her perfume mixing with the sake in his blood to make him singularly focused on her bright face and alluring body. He stumbled after her, reaching for her as she smiled and slipped ahead of him, just outside his grasp.

Once in the bedroom, she slid up against him again, fitting her body inside his arms and molding herself to him as they kissed. Even as she approached, somehow, Lucrezia simply _yielded_.

So he let himself fall, to sink into her heady sexuality. She seemed without boundaries; even her clothing seemed to be no barrier to his touch. This was so simple, so _easy_ , the way his kisses moved from her lips to her neck, and without conscious realization, to her breasts. She gasped as he nuzzled her, and fell back.

Oh. The bed. It was right here all along. Leo noticed his surprise; a small voice in the back of his mind noted “usually I am more aware of my surroundings than this,” but then Lucrezia writhed beneath him. With a moan of pleasure, he let her hands roam to remove his shirt, his pants.

Naked, she was lithe and smooth, with none of the planes and ridges he had become used to with Riario. Lucrezia was gentle curves and lush abundance and surrender. She seemed to drink in his touches, absorb his kisses. He seemed to leave no trace on her flawless skin. He could feel himself falling, disappearing into her, drawn to her body and uninterested in resisting. Especially as her delicate fingers brushed down his body, tracing the light hairs that trailed across his chest and down his abdomen. He closed his eyes and turned himself over to her. 

*****

 Riario looked down to where Zita’s body lay naked beneath him, dark and lush on the pale sheets. Every inch of her seemed to pulse with life, an energy that rose up and met his every touch. He ran the edge of his hand against her cheek, down to her jaw and around to brush her lips with his fingers. She followed him, turning her head slightly to lean into the touch, opening her eyes as his hand reached her jaw. She locked her gaze on him, while she mouthed around his fingers. Anything he did, she responded to, her body reacting literally underneath his fingers.She _undulated_ , her very skin shivered, and delight seemed to emanate from her. She shifted constantly, tiny encouraging movements like waves lapping around him, buoying him up, generating a wondering curiosity. What would she do if he did _that_ , or touched her _there_? What if he switched from his fingers to his lips instead, or to his tongue?

The sheer diversity of her responses amazed him. Sometimes she moaned, that deeply exciting growl of pleasure that spoke of sex to his limbic system. But just as often she laughed, a burble of sound that surprised him. Or else she smiled, with her lips and her eyes, her whole face lighting up with joy that poured off of her. And always, _always_ , she reciprocated. Her own hands danced across his skin, her nails scratched down his back or arms, her tongue darted out to slick across whatever of him was in reach. She wrapped her legs around his, and slid her toes down his calves. She was in constant communication with him, using her body, her voice, her eyes.

It was amazing, this feeling of being totally immersed in the same experience, simultaneously giving and taking pleasure. He had the a sense memory of floating in his father’s swimming pool, the way the water both surrounded him and held him up, as the bright sun warmed his skin. This was what Zita felt like, and it was utterly disarming.

“I hope you brought condoms with you,” she smiled directly into his eyes as she spoke. At this point, they were lying side by side, and he felt her hand slide over his hip and trace the muscular hollow of his flank. “I don’t happen to have any on me today.”

It took a moment for him to register her words, he had become so lost in her touch. “Yes, in the. . . .” He nodded toward the bathroom door. “Shaving kit. I’ll go. . . .” He started to roll away, but she stopped him with that hand on his ass, which she then brought around to lightly brush against his erection.

“I have such plans,” she said. “I will be right back.”

So he watched her, the gentle sway of her hips, the curve of her spine, and floated in the bright warmth of her regard as she came back.

*****

When the crash came, it came hard, as Lucrezia knew it would. She’d perfected her technique, and she recognized the progression from excitement to ecstasy. True, there had been a moment when she had wondered if maybe she had miscalculated? Perhaps Leo was a bit less bisexual than she thought, or else he really was particularly committed to her cousin. It had been moment of uncertainty, which was in itself rather unusual and therefore disturbing. But that moment was over once she pressed herself against him in the elevator. In her experience, an erection didn’t lie.

She stretched her entire body, down to her perfectly manicured toes, reveling in the delightful pull and release of each toned muscle. The man beside her was deeply asleep, his face looking younger and more vulnerable in this unguarded state.

“Well, Giro, I have to give you credit here. You do know how to pick them.” With a twitch of the sheets, she covered herself and uncovered Leo. He didn’t even move, which let her consider him without worrying that he might wake up.

Honestly, he was scruffier than she preferred; but with a decent haircut and a closer shave, she could easily see him fitting into her social circle. He had looked good in that tuxedo, back at the gala. Clothes would be simple to upgrade, but not too much. Maybe a deep v-necked tee shirt under an unconstructed blazer; play up the artistic side. He certainly had the chest for it.

After a few minutes, she flicked her long legs over the edge of the bed and headed to the shower. She could let him sleep; she had work to do. She picked up her phone from the nightstand. It wouldn’t hurt to preserve this memory; she could send it to Giro the next time they clashed. She might even make an album and call it “Trophy Hunting.” The click of the camera didn’t disturb Leo’s sleep in the least.

*****

When Riraio woke, the sun was already well above the horizon. Zita slept quietly, curled on her side and breathing peacefully. Again, he was struck by how different she was from Leo, tended to either sleep fitfully, twitching and vocalizing at random, or else lay basically inert. When he did deign to sleep, which was on his own unpredictable and eccentric schedule.

Zita simply was still, her face had the same expression asleep that she had awake—an open calmness that radiated acceptance. Carefully, Riario slipped out of bed and collected his running clothes. He dressed in the bathroom and left a note tented on the nightstand on Zita’s side of the bed. “Good morning. On a run, back by 8:30. Do me the honor of breakfast when I get back?”

Once outside, the cold air seared his throat, and he felt it all the way into his lungs. It was cold—Midwest winters stayed bitter for a long time—but he felt an amazing lightness, even a sense of well-being as he struck out on a path that had been cleared along the river. The sun was well up, and the light glittered off the snow that still blanketed the ground. Deeply cold and blindingly bright: there was none of the dampness that made Boston winters miserable, but the sheer temperature extremes made up for that. It made the image of Zita, warm with sleep, even more enticing. Resolutely he turned to his run, and followed the black water out of town.

When he returned to the room, his face chapped from the cold, Zita was sitting in the lone armchair, her feet tucked under her as she scanned her phone. She had already showered, and her hair lay glistening with damp on her shoulders. She was wearing one of his shirts, and the sight of it pulled at him physically.

“You look—“ he paused, to let his eyes sweep slowly down the length of her, “delectable.”

She smiled, and toyed with a lock of her hair. “I hope you don’t mind. I rather impulsively found myself spending the night with an extremely attractive man, and hadn’t packed a change of clothing.”

He crossed the room, and lifted her hand to his lips. “I would enjoy taking it off of you again. Button by button.” He suckled gently on her knuckle, while keeping his eyes on her.

“Perhaps that could be arranged,” she promised, “ _after_ your presentation. You will have a room of people who will be extremely disappointed if you don’t show up at all.”

“Then I shall have to enjoy seeing you in my shirt, until I can arrange a time to remove you from it.” 

*****

While he slept, Lucrezia went through Leo’s pockets, but found nothing informative there. His messenger bag was full of loose papers that had been crammed in, and she could not understand their contents, much less figure out any principle by which to organize them. In the end, she just took photos and sent them on. Let somebody else decypher his ridiculous handwriting.

She tried unlocking his cell phone, but apparently he had programmed a custom lock screen. After her fourth attempt to guess a passcode, it had thrown up a warning that threatened to _literally_ explode the device in her hand. While that didn’t seem likely, it also didn’t seem worth the risk.

Lulu took her laptop into the dining room and set down her lunch salad. How long was that man going to sleep? She opened her email and began composing: “Dear Uncle Sandro.”

*****

The European Studies' departmental conference room was more rustic than the one in the political science department. Which was Riario’s polite way of noticing that only the barest of upgrades had been accomplished: the ancient podium had been wired to allow him to project his talk from the laptop, but the podium itself was best described as vintage. The paint on the walls was probably older than he was.

The room was quite full, with undergraduates already sitting on the floor. There were more people than chairs, including a few faces he remembered from yesterday’s speech. That was useful to know; either the political science department was still vetting him or he’d already earned a few fans.

After a brief introduction from the director—“Delighted to see you again, Dr. Riario”—he was on his own. He set up the first slide, and turned to the room. “ _Buongiorno. Sono lieto di essere qui, signore e signori._ ” He had several ways of pitching this lecture; he could even do it in Italian. But a quick evaluation showed him that only about a quarter to a third of the room followed that basic greeting. “For the benefit of our guests from the political science department, I will conduct most of this presentation in English.” There was a ripple of laughter from the Italian speakers, a rumble of gratitude from the rest. A few people had already pulled out their phones and were tapping away.

“I am very happy to be here today, and I have already been challenged to answer a very difficult question: why should two households, both alike in dignity—in this case, Italian and political science—share a single appointment? I hope to convince you of the value through the Italy’s most famous political writer: Niccolò Machiavelli.”

It was a balancing act, and he evaluated his audience almost second-by-second. A few minutes discussing the importance of Machiavelli’s political analysis got the poli-sci fanboys nodding, but left the Italian cohort bored. A brief summary of the evolution of Italian from Dante to the present, in the context of the difficulty in translating _The Prince_ , got the linguists re-engaged, and a couple of very satisfied nods from the director.

“Exactly, sir,” her nods seemed to say. “Let’s make all these political scientists realize they have to study Italian, shall we?”

By this point, he had reached the forty minute mark, so it was time to wrap it up. “In order to truly understand Machiavelli, then, one has to understand not just Italian, but a version of the language that is no longer in use. One needs to understand the effect of a political system in which the pope is not just a spiritual leader, but has a very real temporal authority and military ambitions, but no ability to choose his own successor. One must understand the deep animosity that existed between families like the Borgias and the della Roveres, and how their papacies were used to advance their own families. All of one pope’s grants of money, land, or titles were more or less ‘clawed back’ into the papal treasury at his death, in order to be redistributed to the new pope’s family. The lessons of Italy are valuable for the study of modern political systems, and modern political systems illuminate the history of Italy.”

The final slide was a portrait of a handsome man, dressed in velvet robes, posed against a barren landscape. “In Renaissance Italy, someone like Cesare Borgia could be born the illegitimate son of a Catholic priest, use the armies of the pope to fight his way up the social ladder, become a duke, and still die divested of all his gains. Upward mobility was possible, but you still had to fight to stay at the top once you got there. The entire peninsula can be seen as either the epitome of social mobility, or the nadir of political volatility. It’s worth thinking about whether that is a better system than what we have now.” He smiled, a small flash of white teeth in his dark beard. “If I could take a moment to get some water, we’ll open this up for questions.”

Zita was there, handing him a bottle that was blessedly cold and sweating in his hand. Someone took advantage of the break to open the door—the room had become a bit overheated—and about two dozen more students entered the room to line up against the wall, squeezing in closely. They were mostly women, and Riario smiled a welcome. Zita, still standing nearby, audibly sighed.

“Is there something wrong?” He finished the bottle quickly and handed it back to her.

“I’ll tell you afterwards.”

She was still wearing his shirt, and he took a moment to smile at her. “I have every intention of discussing that, and the state of your wardrobe, with you as soon as possible, for as long as possible.” 

*****

Frustratingly, Leo continued to sleep. At least, he’d gotten more active, so Lucrezia no longer had to check periodically to see if he had died on her. Now his eyes had started darting underneath his eyelids, and his fingers twitched rhythmically. Cynically, she wondered if she placed them on top of a keyboard, would the resulting message be something readable? She could test the cliché about monkeys eventually typing Shakespeare.

Uncle Sandro had responded, with his usual mix of fury and vitriol. She deleted the message, and sat, bored, wishing Leo would wake up already. 

*****

 It was nearly dinnertime before Riario was able to escape the room. Once again the question and answer period had gone on longer than anticipated, and a couple dozen students had milled about, listening in and asking questions afterwards. A group of male political science majors wanted him to join them for dinner at a local bar to keep discussing his perspective on income inequality and its effect on sustaining an all-volunteer military. There was also a group of women who were Dante enthusiasts asked him to join them at a wine bar to discuss the specifics of the _Purgatorio_.

Zita made excuses to them both. “Dr. Riario is expected at an interdisciplinary meeting this evening. The faculty has specifically assembled to meet him. They want to discuss his ideas for integrating the political science and Italian curricula.” Riario raised his eyebrows—this hadn’t been on the visit agenda he had been given. Zita spoke quietly. “There is a group of professors who have dinner together regularly. Whatever their topic for today was, they decided to bump it in favor of talking with you. The director here said you could just repeat this talk. There was some definite distain for ‘those of the faculty who couldn’t be bothered.’ I think she’s feeling like her department has been unfairly ignored.” She led him out of the building. “You’ve made quite an impression, you know.”

“God bless social media, I guess.” He laughed, as Zita drove him to the meeting site at the home of one of the professors: a Victorian mansion that had been built by a local lumber baron. “When I was an undergraduate, that kind of information would have taken days to spread.”

Zita rolled her eyes. “It’s definitely a double edged sword. You know that group of women who came in right before the Q and A?”

Riario nodded. “Yes, they missed the presentation. I hope the questions made sense to them.”

Zita sighed again. “They didn’t care about the presentation. Someone in the room used an Italian chat space to post about you.” He didn’t react, so she had to spell it out. “Specifically, she posted something titled ’Invasion of the hot Italian professor candidate,’ and urged everyone to come, quote, ‘check out the fresh meat.’ And she posted a photo, with text across it that said ‘Booty, booty, booty.’” Zita sighed again. “I want to apologize on behalf of my institution, and my entire gender. Sometimes, equality is not pretty.”

Riario had no idea how to respond to this information, so the car became very quiet. It was not uncomfortable, though, which Riario attributed to Zita’s clear eyed assessment of the situation. “It may be a blessing that undergraduate evaluations of interview presentations are pretty much ignored. I think you had all of them eating out of your hand, and based on the chat comments, more than a few would be inappropriate.”

There was no hint of bitterness or jealousy in her voice, nothing he needed to worry about with her, at least. So he turned his mind to the next task. “This event we are headed to—this was not part of the original itinerary, was it?”

“No, it wasn’t.” Zita took a turn, and the street got noticeably darker. This was a more affluent neighborhood—fewer streetlights, fewer buildings, fewer lights generally. “I think you could consider this a victory party. You are being introduced to some important faculty here. Possibly you are being shown off. Honestly, none of the other candidates ever got this kind of reception.” She turned up a horseshoe driveway, in front of a broad stone house. Every window was alight, and the warm yellow glow spilled out across the dark lawn. “I think they have decided that they want you. Now they will try to convince you to want them back. Congratulations, Professor Riario. I think you have conquered Imola.”

Of course he had—he knew he had. He’d felt it in every meeting, every presentation, every interaction with faculty and students.

She unlatched her seatbelt, but before she could open her door, he reached across and captured her hand. He pulled it slowly to his mouth, and she felt her bones melt again, just a little, at the hot breath across her skin, followed by the softness of his lips around her knuckles.

“Will you come back with me, tonight? I will be able to stand being on display for strangers if I know I will be able to see more of you afterwards.” His voice was husky and low, as he mouthed across her hand.

God he was beautiful, she thought. The things he was doing with his lips should be illegal. With a forced lightness, she managed to say, “Well, I do have to return your shirt.”

*****

 There must have been dreams, but Leo would never remember them. 

*****

 Afterwards, back at the inn, Riario told her he didn’t want the shirt back. “It would please me to think of you wearing it again,” he said.

 That was before he ripped most of the buttons off.

*****

 Lucrezia was in a spectacularly bad mood. She hadn’t found anything in his possessions that she could use, either to advance her professional agenda with DRV, or to use against Girolamo in her personal vendetta. Worse, she was bored. Leo had slept the entire day, which was a waste of a handsome male body in her bed. She had just jerked the covers up over her shoulder when Leo slid his hand up her leg and his voice—cracked from disuse and sleep—croaked into her ear. “I thought you might have been a dream.”

He tugged at the fabric of her nightgown, fingering the silky fabric as he wrapped himself around her back and mouthed her neck. Immediately, her anger began to fade to mere pique. He traced a line over the swell of her hips and up her ribs. “I don’t know how I managed to find so much beauty in my bed, but perhaps I earned it somehow?”

 He made wet circles on her neck with his tongue, while his fingers danced across her skin. She decided she would allow him to make it up to her. It turned out to be quite satisfactory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Italian is rudimentary at best: most of these are from Italian sites, not just Google translate. But I will happily accept corrections.
> 
> Certemente, signora. Ho familgia in Italia. Mi chiamo Girolamo Riario, si?  
> Certainly, madam. I have family in Italy. My name is Girolamo Riario, yes?
> 
> Ho scritto una storia d’amore senza inizio e senza fini, per scriverla con te  
> ”I have written a love story without a beginning or an ending, so that we may write it together.”
> 
> Sommergimi di carezze fino a farmi affogare  
> “Smother me with caresses until I suffocate.”
> 
> Tesoro mio  
> “My treasure”
> 
> Sei come l’acqua nel deserto.  
> “You are like water in the desert.”
> 
> Buongiorno. Sono lieto di essere qui, signore e signori.  
> “Good day. I am happy to be here, ladies and gentlemen.”


	14. The Balance Shifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riario talks about his feelings about Leo, finally, although not with Leo, and he has to contemplate what his future will look like. Lucretia tempts Leo with what his future could look like with her in charge of it. Zo and Nico get called in for some relationship counseling with Leo, which they are unqualified to provide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is late because it took a great deal more re-writing than I had anticipated. I hope to get back to my regular posting schedule, but if the remaining chapters need this much editing, I may only be able to get one a week actually posted. Rest assured that the entire story has been written, at least.
> 
> Many thanks to Star_flaming for assistance in helping me through the block I had. The conversations between Riario and Zita needed more nuance, and I am grateful for the help!

Spent and satisfied, Riario was not ready to move, unwilling to acknowledge any end to this moment. Instead, he remained where he was, immersed in the experience of Zita’s body stretched beneath his, his elbows propped on either side of her head, his fingers tangled in her hair, her pillowed lips meeting his. He cradled Zita’s face in his hands as he explored her mouth, the planes of her cheeks, the tender skin of her eyelids, with his lips.

But it couldn’t last forever, however much he wanted it to. Even his trained muscles had to rest eventually but he wasn’t going to give up the tactile connection. So as he rolled, he pulled her with him, until they had switched places and she lay on top of him.

“What are you—oh!” Zita laughed, and tangled her legs with his.

Taking advantage of the new position, Riario ran his fingertips down her back, marveling at the curve of her waist, at the swell of her buttocks in his hands, at the press of her breasts against his chest. She fit into his hands, along his body, in ways that were utterly new to him.

He couldn’t reach her to kiss her, but his hands could roam freely. There was a spot in the small of her back that was. . .not ticklish, but sensitive. Her skin shivered under his fingers and she squirmed delightfully. All this was new, not just discovering a new body, but the emotions of the moment. This giddy joy of being intimately connected, of playful touch, was not anything he had ever had with Leo.

From her new vantage point, Zita could not take her eyes off Riario’s face, which showed a new transparent mobility. In the restaurant a couple of days ago, he had used that mobility as a mask to hide his thoughts. Now, he had dropped his guard, and she could see how he looked when he wasn’t weighing every word, when he wasn’t calculating all the possible outcomes before daring to speak at all.

As he ran his delicate touch across her body, she saw delight, excitement, happiness, and. . .a brief expression flickered on his face, and she stilled. She had seen it only moments before, and here it was, back again. Once was unremarkable, twice might only be a coincidence, but--

Riario felt the change immediately, and looked at her as she scanned his face, carefully, soberly. “Is something the matter?” He could tell something had changed, but not what. 

Zita took a long look, her intelligent eyes drinking him in. Again, he had that sense of her seeing him, entirely and compassion. It was different from the way Leo looked at him. . . .

“And there it is,” Zita said, the lilting cadence of her voice dampened, carrying sadness and resignation. She rolled off him, lying to one side and pulling up a sheet to cover herself.

Riario was confused. “Is something wrong? What is the matter?”

He looked genuinely concerned, and that sincerity pierced her heart. Whatever was going on inside him, he wasn’t aware of it. He wasn’t playing her, and that made everything possible.

Zita ran her thumb across the bone beneath one of his eyes, and spoke gently. “Something showed in your face just now. You were thinking about something— _someone._ There is somebody back home who is important to you. Important enough to be here with you, right now.”

And it _was_ there—the same quicksilver expression came back for the fourth time. She hadn’t been mistaken. Well, she wasn’t afraid of the truth, whatever it was. She hadn’t really imagined that someone like Riario would be conveniently unattached and completely available.

For his part, Riario was taken aback. He hadn’t really recognized that he’d been thinking about Leo. But Leo was his experience, was his comparison. Zita was different in so many ways, and it wasn’t uncomplimentary. Not in the least. But it was true—Leo _was_ here. And it wasn’t fair to Zita.

Before he could speak, though, Zita stopped him. “I see sadness in you, Girolamo Riario. You do not have to excuse yourself to me. I am not asking for explanations. But for your own sake, it would be worth resolving your feelings.” She slid off the bed, and walked toward the bathroom. Riario could not help but admire her slim waist and rounded buttocks, the easy grace of her gait. In almost every way, Zita was the complete opposite of the brilliant, eccentric boy back in Boston.

At the door she paused, and looked directly at him. Her gaze was calm and accepting, but also direct and unflinching. “You deserve happiness, however you can find it. Think about what you want, Girolamo Riario. You will find that I am easy to talk to.”

In the quiet of the now empty room, he sat for a moment, looking down at his hands clasped loosely in his lap. He had been thinking about Leo, but he didn’t know what to think _about_ Leo. He straighten the bed, pulled on a pair of flannel pajamas from the drawer, then went to sit in the arm chair by the window and thought.

He thought a lot about water. About the dark river that ran through this town, down below the window where he was sitting. About how the low winter sun struck both the river and the snowbanks that lined it, illuminating the depths of the river and glancing brilliantly off the snow. About how as the snow melted, it ran directly into the river, sinking into the channel without disturbing the current. About how the river accepted the new addition without changing its own course, becoming deeper and more powerful for the increase. About how even now, water was sluicing down Zita’s dark and voluptuous body mere feet away from where he sat.

Out of the shower, Zita wound a large white towel around her body and stepped to the sink. She turned on the tap, and let it run until the water was cold enough to drink. As she sipped from the glass, she looked into her own eyes in the mirror. She did not regret these days with the fascinating Girolamo Riario. Whatever he decided to tell her, whatever he decided to do, she could accept. Like the Queen of Sheba, she had been entertained by her own King Solomon, and would return to her own life afterwards with her head held high and her self respect intact.

So she tightened the towel around herself, took a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.

Riario was sitting stiffly in the armchair across the room, wearing pajamas, ones that buttoned up with an actual collar, and cuffs on the sleeves and legs. He looked like someone from a classic movie—William Powell in _The Thin Man_. At the same time, his large, liquid eyes were fixed on her, and he looked young and vulnerable, and Zita could suddenly see the child he had once been. It was dizzing, the room seemed to shift around her, and she knew— _she knew_ —that she had already fallen for him. That whatever he had to say, she would trust him not to hurt her.

He had been waiting for her return. As soon as she stepped out, he stood and waved her into his vacated seat. Shehitched the towel slightly tighter around her breasts, and lowered herself elegantly into the armchair.

Riario retreated to the far side of the bed, and propped himself up against the headboard. He had, she noted, pulled up the covers into a fair approximation of made bed. He sat, his legs in front of him, crossed at the ankle, his hands clasped in his lap.

“I want to say. . . first of all. . .what I am about to say has nothing to do with my feelings for you.” He was hesitant, but clear. ”You are a rare and amazing woman, Zita, and I have been honored to get to know you.” That sounded like the preface to a “it’s not you, it’s me” speech. Zita took a moment to recall exactly where she could find her car keys. Walking out with her head high was going to be easier if she didn’t have to root around looking for her stuff. Or, god forbid, having to come back for something she forgot.

“There is someone, back in Boston, but it’s. . .it’s complicated. He is very bright, but he’s also erratic and we, well, we don’t talk much. That’s not who we are.”

Zita startled a bit—she had not been expecting that his lover was a man. But Riario had definitely said “he.” This was not the scenario she had prepared herself for, and once again the shape of the future shifted.

He. . . my . . .well, what do I call him?” Riario’s face was mobile again, as it had been that afternoon at the Italian restaurant. Emotions flickered across his face, briefly glimpsed, and then covered and camouflaged in the sheer quantity of expressions. He was hard to read, maybe even impossible. He drew his lips into a thin line, then continued.

“Leo—his name is Leo—he sought me out. It was not something I would have done otherwise because. . .” His voice faded away as he contemplated the next phrase. “I have a difficult relationship with my father. He has definite ideas of what my life should look like, and neither academia nor homosexuality are within the bounds of what he considers acceptable.”

He looked to the side, was he ashamed? Zita said nothing, but trained her own expression to look accepting and unthreatening as possible. It certainly sounded like he’d had enough disapproval in his life.

“I have to explain about my father.” With a few swift sentences, Riario sketched out the authoritarian presence and power of Alessandro della Rovere. “He has been arranging for me to step into any of a number of positions, all designed to be advantageous to him. My father intends me for . . . _strategic_. . .postings, and he would be the puppet master of my career. Even by not working for him, I would be working for him. I would be placed into think tanks, Congressional committees, State Department, Joint Chiefs of Staff—he’s got connections and influence everywhere. The CIA. NSA.”

He paused, gathered his thoughts. “You know how they say absolute power corrupts absolutely? It also likes to corrupt others; and I was his project. My future was laid out for me and I was trained to obedience.”

Another pause, as Riario visibly collected himself. Zita sat patiently, letting him proceed at his own pace.

“And then I met Leo da Vinci.” There was that expression again, the one that had alerted her to the presence of someone in Riario’s life. Obviously, this Leo was important.

“Leo was— _is_ —a force of nature. He was compelling from the moment I saw him. He is brilliant, but undisciplined. He will accomplish great things, but he will tear himself to pieces in the process. We balance each other. He shows me how to slip my father’s traces and live more freely; I keep him from disappearing into mania and addiction.”

Riario subsided into silence, and Zita waited a moment. When he didn’t continue, she ventured a comment. “He seems to be very important to you.”

The expression Riario turned to her held hope and passion, but also desperation and disappointment. He did not look much like the man who dominated the campus over the last two days. He looked desperate.

“ _I don’t know how to save him._ ” The whisper was itself raw, scraped out from strangling vocal cords. “I have already ruined his life. Because he is brilliant, and because he is with me, he has come to my father’s attention. I don’t know if my father wants to use him to bring me to heel, or if he understands what a mind like Leo’s could do for him. In either case, Leo is now a target. He is on the list of things my father intends to acquire.”

She hadn’t expected this either.

Riario’s eyes were huge, they seemed to take over more and more of his face the longer she looked at him, and she felt herself wanting to reach him, to ease his pain. She wanted him not to suffer.

“Wait, I understand, your father complicates things. That’s important, but what do _you_ want?”

He was stumped. “That is not a question I am accustomed to ask myself. I have not been allowed to ask that question. I can tell you what my obligations are, what duties I owe.”

“Well, you are here, right now, pushing back against your father’s expectations, so you must have some idea that you want something different. What do you want for yourself?” Riario simply looked at her, as though her words made no sense to him. Perhaps they didn’t. Anybody who described themselves as having been trained to obedience was unlikely to have even thought about their own preferences.

But as the seconds ticked away in silence, she realized she needed to ask the question, to address the elephant in the room. Not that she _wanted_ to ask, because the answer was not necessarily something she wanted to hear. But this man in front of her clearly needed to sort himself out, and she could see what he needed. So she gathered her own strength and asked.

“Do you love him? This Leo, I mean.” She could feel her voice crack—how had this become so emotionally laden for her so quickly? “Forget about what your father thinks—what do you want with him?”

“He—he calls to me. He _sees_ me. He is an artist, and he looks at me, and he sees me without punishing me. That is—that is something I was not used to.” His hand went up to his cheek, his fingers touched a faint scar beneath his eye. For a few seconds, he was silent, but then his eyes suddenly locked onto hers.

“I had learned not to call attention to myself, since attention from my father so often presages something dangerous. It has been disconcerting to be seen, and Leo taught me that I could be seen as something valuable. He sees me and makes art from it.” His shifted, and looked toward her, his chin down, the intensity of his gaze partially hidden behind his long bangs.

She wanted to cross the room, to sweep those bangs away, to stare into those eyes and make him believe that he was worthwhile for himself, not for what his father could get from him, and not even because Leo could use him to make art. Actually, she was feeling a little hostile toward this Leo—and that was an emotion she could look at later.

Right now, Riario was in front of her, brave and damaged, offering to show her his vulnerabilities, and she wanted to honor this trust. She didn’t want to miss what he was saying just because she wanted to touch him, to comfort him, to be back inside his arms.

She could hear the voices of her housemates, the women she trusted and had shared her life with these past few years. _Girl, you are **not** falling for a man who already has a boyfriend and didn’t tell you about him! That is not how you deserve to be treated!_ And they were right—she did deserve better. And yet, as she looked at this impossible man, she knew they were also wrong.

 _Oh honey, no, that is just the good sex talking! You don’t sign up with a man who keeps secrets, you know better._ She did know better, and yet she wasn’t walking out of this room. She wanted to hear more, she wanted to understand this man. Even if she knew better, she also realized she knew _exactly_ what Riario meant when he said “he calls to me.” Something in him was calling to her, and she could not walk away yet.

So she had to ask the question again, because she was weak and unable to save herself. She had to have Riario tell her that she was just a holiday fling. “But do you love him?” Because if he was in love with a man, then she could discipline her traitorous heart with the harsh reality that Riario was not available.

Riario was amazed at how calm she was, how composed. He didn’t know what to expect, but he had vaguely assumed that she would be disgusted by him. Disgust was the emotion he most often experienced from Alessandro, and he had been prepared for that. Dimly, he had expected that once he mentioned Leo, she would have walked out, at the very least. He would have understood anger, or betrayal. He had expected to be shamed and hated.

Instead, this beautiful woman had simply asked him to explain himself. Even now, she looked at him calmly, as though everything he had said was perfectly understandable, acceptable even.

Not that the question was an easy one. But she had asked it without rancor or judgment, and he found he did not know the answer.

“Do I love Leo? Before this week, I might have said yes. It might be more accurate to say I could not imagine doing without him. He made me feel necessary, like I could have a place in the world independent of my father. I needed what he gave me.”

Damn her heart! It kicked inside her chest at the least bit of hope it could find. And there was no mistake that it heard something in that last statement. “Before this week?” She tried to convince herself that there was no tremble in her voice, because she was stronger than that.

Riario looked down at his own hands. “Before this week, Leo was the only person to have looked at me and seen something worthwhile. But now—You do it too. When you look at me, you see me—not what I can be used for. I have come to. . . .” He paused, working out what he wanted to say here; so many words could apply. _Desire it_ was accurate, _need it_ was also true. But they were both too revealing, too needy, they implied too much emotional obligation and he did not wish to impose on her. He started again.

“Leo taught me that I could be seen differently from the way my father looked at me. Now again I am learning a new way of being seen, because you are different from Leo. Your look is kinder. I have come to value it—to value _you._ ” Again, his eyes slid away to the side, as if he was not allowed to look directly at her. “I am afraid I have indulged myself; I have not wanted to lose your company. I have been selfish with you.”

Yes, yes he had been selfish. He hadn’t told her that he had someone important to him back at home, that he was in a same sex relationship. He hadn’t told her he was unavailable. But her heart wouldn’t hear it, wouldn’t stop kicking at her ribs, wouldn’t let her blame him because her heart wanted him.

Well, if it was going to break either way, it might as well break because she knew the truth. “What are you going to do? Have you talked about your future with Leo?”

“As I said—we don’t talk much.”

Okay, that seemed unlikely to her—so much of her experience with Riario had been about his thoughts, his understanding of politics, both the theoretical ideas of his work, and the practical application to the problem of the Imola faculty. But, she was no artist, no visual thinker. With someone like that, perhaps words weren’t the proper medium of communication.

“What would happen if you accepted this job, came here to Imola?” She went on before he could point out the obvious. “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know they are going to offer it to you—they were practically rolling over and asking you to rub their bellies, and you know it. They are going to offer you this job. Are you going to take it? Do you _want_ to take it? Do you want to be here?”

He looked directly at her, the look as hot and intense and full of desire as anything she had ever seen.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you have been in the desert for too long, and I am the first water you have seen.”

“ _Sei come l’acqua nel deserto_ , _tresoro mio_.”

“That is exactly what you have to stop doing.” It was hard to speak around the catch in her throat. “We are talking about your boyfriend.”

“We are talking about what I want, _cara_. If I am honest, I want you as well.”

“You are making this very difficult. I almost think you are doing it on purpose.”

He had the grace to look slightly abashed. “Perhaps I am.”

She took a breath. This felt like diving off a cliff, trusting that the water below did not hide rocks that would break her. “King Solomon—I know you remember him. The Bible says he had 700 wives and 300 concubines. Yet even with all those women to choose from, he still seduced the Queen of Sheba. She showed him something different, some side of himself—she had something he didn’t already have, even with all those other wives and concubines.”

She didn’t have experience with this, she didn’t know if she could do this—could actually share him with somebody else. But when the alternative was to give him up entirely, the cost felt too high. “Maybe you need to love more than one person to feel whole. You need Leo; that’s just the way things are. But that might not be enough.”

Her heart was hammering now, beating like a mad thing against her ribs; fear, hope, adrenaline, or just a reflexive response to the look he was giving her. Damn him and those eyes. He stood, and opened his arms.

Later, she slept with her head on his bare chest, wearing his pajama top. He tightened his arms around her, and he felt his own center of gravity shift. Boston no longer felt like a home, except for Leo. He was going to come to Imola, and Zita was a critical part of that. As he slipped into sleep, he knew he was going to have to do something, to solve the problem of Leo. But he was allowed to rescue himself first.

*****

Leo woke, fuzzily aware of voices outside the room. Where was he anyway? He looked around, but nothing sparked his memories. He sat up, and spotted a sketch of a woman’s head on a paper napkin. Lucrezia? Was hers one of the voices he was hearing?

“This is not your house, and I was not trespassing!” It sounded like Lucrezia, but angry. He had a vague sense that maybe he should go intervene, maybe settle things down, so he looked around for his jeans.

“Would it help if we had some kind of a code? Like a tie on the doorknob? Or, you could chalk an Alpha on the door frame when you are home, and I’ll put an Omega on it when I’m here?” Yup. Definitely Lucrezia. He couldn’t hear the other person’s responses, just a deep and furious murmur. He got the jeans on, and zipped them up.

“ _Uncle Sandro_ owns this place. Uncle Sandro gave me the key. Uncle Sandro did _not_ say I had to clear it with you.” Lucrezia’s voice had gotten more strident, so Leo threw open the door without stopping to find his shirt, intent on stopping whoever was threatening. . . .

Lucrezia was standing toe to toe with—Riario.

He had not anticipated this.

Those large brown eyes locked with his, with an all but physical “click,” like two magnets finally coming to rest in each other. Leo felt the force he always felt in Riario’s presence, a near gravitational pull toward that hard body. Right now, that force wiped him clean of every other thought. He couldn’t think, couldn’t say anything more coherent than, “You’re here.” It might have been a question. It might have sounded like an admission of guilt. It might just have been an acknowledgement of the sudden desire he had to crush himself against the man who was mysteriously in front of him.

Riario pulled himself upright, tipped his head back and looked down his long nose at Leo. His hooded eyes covered whatever emotion he was feeling; Leo couldn’t read him at all. Then Riario deliberately broke eye contact and looked directly at Lucrezia. “I do not need your leavings,” he spat, his voice pitched low and cold. He turned on his heel and walked down the stairs. Moments later, the front door clicked.

 *****

Leo was surprised that the soft “click” of an expensive door closing on an entirely different floor could sound so loud. He was frozen in shock, replaying the scene he had just been part of. Riario, _his_ Riario, had been here. This was Riario’s apartment, and Leo had just spent two days bedding Lucrezia in it. He couldn’t make those pieces fit together in his head; Riario’s apartment, bedding Lucrezia. The two facts simply could not exist in the same headspace; it was like trying to write code for the smell of paint. They should have nothing to do with each other, and yet they did.

Sluggishly, his brain processed the word “Lucrezia” and he turned his head. She was still there, standing in the hallway, barefoot and wearing some kind of translucent covering. It looked expensive, and probably had an expensive name, like _peignoir_ , or _negligée_. Her hair was tumbled in auburn curls around her shoulders, and her face was glowing with triumph. She looked powerful, and would have made an excellent model for a Nike, poised on an ocean cliff, her garments fluttering in the breeze from the ocean. He could almost see the image, could imagine the painting it could become; the terrible victor reigning over the shattered remains of a defeated navy washing up on the shore beneath her feet.

But this was not an ancient Grecian coastline, it was not a painting, it was his real life and it was Riario’s apartment. Leo’s brain stuttered and stalled out, as he tried to resolve the chaos churning inside.

In contrast, Lucrezia felt a cool, clear rush of adrenaline sharpen her responses as she watched Riario’s stiff back disappear down the stairs. She had beaten him, that supercilious prick; she had confronted him on his own turf and he had retreated, leaving her with the prize. Lucrezia looked approvingly at Leo—the boy did look good shirtless, and she was never loathe to appreciate male beauty—but the stricken look in his face rather spoiled her triumph.

“Close your mouth, Leo. You’ll catch flies like that. Come shower and get dressed, I’ll buy you breakfast.”

It was easier to follow directives than to think, for the moment at least. So Leo allowed himself to be towed back into Lucrezia’s bathroom, and eventually down to her car and downtown for breakfast. If he had thought about it, he would have expected they were going to a basic diner, but Lucrezia lived a more upscale life than he was used to. Breakfast with Lucrezia turned out to be brunch at an expensive hotel. “They do an endless mimosa here; life is short and one might as well enjoy what one can,” Lucrezia had confided. She then proceeded to drink at a rate Leo found difficult to match.

“So, let’s deal with the elephant in the room, shall we?” Lucrezia waved her champagne flute to emphasize her words, yet she remained elegant about it; not a drop spilled. Ever.

“You’ve got it bad for him, don’t you? Ah!” She put up a warning hand. “Don’t lie. You never have to lie to me. I don’t have feelings, you know. I’m sure Giro told you that about me, so you don’t have to worry about hurting them.”

It was possible that Leo had never been so uncomfortable, or felt so out of place, at any time in his life. He was back in the clothes he had worn to that ill-fated advisor meeting: wrinkled jeans, an old oxford shirt with frayed cuffs, and a pullover sweater that bagged so shapelessly that he was certain Zo had worn it before he did. It might even have been Zo’s, since their laundry often got mixed up. Sure the shower had helped a bit, but climbing back into his old clothes had erased some of that advantage. He sat, basically miserable, with his messenger bag tucked between his feet under the table, feeling every inch an impoverished graduate student, awkward and unwelcome in the world Lucrezia was dragging him into.

By contrast, the hotel restaurant was elegant and willing to show off just how expensive it was. The floral arrangement in the center of the room was taller than he was. The silver-haired man sitting at the next table, tucking into Eggs Benedict with such enthusiasm, was wearing shoes that probably cost more than Leo’s monthly rent. Add in the Rolex watch, the expensive suit, and the haircut, and the man was worth more than anything Leo had ever paid for himself, up to and including his tuition.

He felt conspicuously shabby, and wrong footed, both new emotions to him. Of course, Lucrezia glowed in this setting as if she was a jewel and it had been designed purely for the purpose of showing her off.

So trying to talk about Riario—about his _feelings_ about Riario—made it all worse. He tried to change the subject. “Look, Lucrezia,” but she cut him off.

“Do you regret it?”

He wrinkled his nose in confusion. “Regret what?”

Lucrezia waved expansively, indicating that there was no limit to the scope of her question. “Anything. Sleeping with Giro. Sleeping with me. Not sleeping with me sooner. Being brilliant. Being grad student poor. Do you regret anything?”

He chose the least difficult of the conversational topics. “Why do you call him ‘Giro?’”

“Well, it’s his name, isn’t it?” Lucrezia ordered fruit and accepted a bread basket from the waiter, and a fresh mimosa as well. “Girolamo. It’s his name. Didn’t you know that? Have you been sleeping with my cousin for months now without knowing his name?”

“Of course not. I know that’s his name. I also know he doesn’t use it, and he certainly doesn’t use that form. I have never heard him utter the name ‘Giro.’ Not ever.” Leo took a muffin from the bread basket and set it on the plate in front of him. “He doesn’t meet people and say ‘Call me Giro.’”

“No, he wouldn’t.” Lucrezia leaned forward, her elbow on the table. “Tell you a secret? He _hates_ his name, and he especially hates ‘Giro.’ I think it makes him feel childish. So that’s why I use it. He retaliates, you know. He calls me ‘Lulu.’ He thinks I hate that as much as he hates ‘Giro.’ It’s like mutually assured destruction.” She considered for a moment. “If he would stop calling me ‘Lulu,’ I might agree to stop calling him ‘Giro.’” A huge smile crossed her face, the first sign to Leo that she was tipsy. “No. No, I wouldn’t. It’s how I think of him now. He’s Giro Riario, now and forever. Sucks to be him.”

Leo coughed, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “You look tired. You should order something. Got to keep up your strength if you’re coming back to bed with me after this.”

Leo felt like he was about sixteen years old, awkwardly trying to find words to turn someone down. “Lucrezia, I don’t—that wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Of course it’s not a good idea, because you have it bad for my cousin. And you don’t want to get caught fucking me in his apartment. Again. Do you?” The waiter dropped a platter of fresh fruit at the table, every berry succulent and perfectly ripe, the melon glistening and perfect. There was a china pot of cream as well. It was exquisite and perfect and expensive and not what he wanted at all. He felt ridiculous and what he really wanted was cheap and plentiful food like he was used to: pancakes and eggs and hash browns and sausage.

Which was not on offer, so Leo nervously readjusted the heavy napkin on his lap. “Look, Lucrezia, I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t want to talk about Riario. It. . .it feels ungallant.” He expected her to look stricken, hurt by his rejection.

Instead, Lucrezia abruptly shifted her focus. “Then tell me about your studies, Leo. Why are you here? You could be out making a fortune in business.” She picked at some fruit on her plate. “Don’t tell me you are planning on being an artist; the student loan payments would be overwhelming.” She turned the small fork over in her hands, it balanced on her beautiful fingers like a piece of avant garde jewelry, and Leo burned the image into his mind to draw later.

“Because I could help you, you know. If that’s what you wanted. I know people. I know gallery owners, I know designers, I know people who curate collections for law firms and building developers. I can get your art in front of people who matter, who will pay for it. If that’s what you want, I can make it happen for you.”

“You haven’t even seen any of my work.”

She shook her head. “I saw that drawing you made of me.”

Leo scoffed. “Oh, that. Tossed off half-drunk. Doesn’t count.”

Again, she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. Corporate art doesn’t work like that anyway. I can tell you are good. You’ll appeal. That actually matters less than who you know, what story we can tell about you to the people who matter.” With a start, Leo realized she was running her bare foot up his leg under the table. “I know people, and you know me. We could make this happen, but you have to want it. Want me.”

He heard it then, the purr under the words. She wasn’t as drunk as she was pretending to be. He wasn’t sure _why_ she was pretending to be drunk, but she was still in control of herself. And she was back to seducing him again. God help him, though, that purr was doing things to him. She was very good at this.

He could feel the way she was enmeshing him, using his dreams to catch him, and he wanted that—who wouldn’t?—but he also felt there was something dangerous in getting entangled with her. “Look, like I said, Lucrezia, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Or, do you want to keep inventing?” Leo was hungry, his stomach was growling, but Lucrezia waved off the waiter except to refill her glass. She was not going to be eating, that much was obvious. He resigned himself to grabbing something on his way home, whenever this finally ended. “Because I can help there too. I know some R&D labs; you could start in one of those, and I bet you would have your own lab in no time.” She reached for his hand, sliding her slim fingers along his rough ones, making them tingle with her touch. She was very, _very_ good at this.

“You can’t tell me Giro has offered you any of this help, because he hasn’t. He can’t. He’s buried himself in books and cut himself off from the people who can make things happen. Tell me, Leo.” Her eyes snapped up to his, boring into him. “What is it that you want, more than anything else? What is your greatest desire? Because I promise I can make it come true, whatever it is.”

This was the strangest conversation he had been in since—well, he couldn’t remember when. Yet it also felt oddly familiar. The skipping from topic to topic, the way Lucrezia kept assuring him that she could _make things happen_. With a start, he realized that it felt familiar because this was how his own mind worked. _Interesting_.

He suddenly had a new appreciation for how patient Zo was with him, especially those times he’d barged in and woken him up in the early morning hours. Frankly, he was surprised Zo had never hit him with anything.

In fact, Zo usually just agreed with everything Leo said until Leo finally left, distracted by some other idea. In this case, however, Lucrezia wasn’t going to leave the restaurant until the champagne ran out. But he could.

So he stood up. “I really appreciate what you are trying to do for me here, Lucrezia. Really, it’s. . .it’s really nice of you. But I’ve got to go finish something, so I’m just going to go now, and, maybe I’ll see you later?” He didn’t wait for any response from her, just turned and made his way out between the tables. He felt like he deserved the contemptuous glares he got along the way. He didn’t belong here; he didn’t belong with Lucrezia either. He felt younger than Nico, out of his depth and awkward. He wasn’t sure what he intended to do about the whole mess with Riario, so he just went home.

Vanessa had told him once that slugs and snails could be killed by falling into small cups of beer, placed around a garden. Attracted by the fementing smell of alcohol, they crawled into the trap and drowned. Leo now had some real sympathy for how that could happen.

*****

Leo was becoming frustrated. It had been over a week, and Riario still wasn’t responding to his texts, and wasn’t contacting him either. Things were coming due—the end of the semester was approaching, and he should have been grateful for the space to simply concentrate on his work. Some of the time he was, actually. Too much of the time he couldn’t do anything but obsessively check his phone for missed messages, and think about ways to fix things with Riario.

He did still have the master key, after all, that he wore on a leather thong around his neck. He could simply let himself into Riario’s office and wait. He pulled up the key, ran it between his fingers, rubbed it against his teeth, let his eyes go out of focus as he turned it in front of his gaze. Every day—every minute—that he didn’t use it made the idea of using it seem less sensible.

Which was unusual, and even he recognized it. Since when did Leo da Vinci think twice before taking action? When did he become prudent?

Possibly because he knew that Riario simply didn’t want to see him, didn’t want to be in contact. Confronting him wouldn’t change that, and might make it impossible to deny that whatever they were, whatever they had been, was over.

He did not want to think about that.

He needed distraction, something to break him out of the obsessive circle of thoughts that returned, always returned, to Riario. Part of it was guilt, no doubt. Leo recognized that sleeping with his lover’s cousin— _in his own apartment_ —was not the best decision he had ever made. In his defense, Leo hadn’t known it was Riario’s apartment. He’d only been there once, and Lucrezia had taken him in a different way. Nothing had been familiar, nothing had clued him into the location until he had actually seen Riario standing there.

He had mitigating circumstances too! Not just the unfamiliarity of the apartment, but he was drunk! The sake had gotten to him; he’d never drunk that much sake before. He’d had a terrible, horrible, no good, awful day when Lucrezia had found him; he’d been vulnerable. He hadn’t done it on purpose, it hadn’t been a deliberate choice to pick Lucrezia over Riario, it had been a case of diminished capacity.

He’d like to have the chance to make his defense to Riario, have it out in a big argument, where they could yell at each other and then make up afterwards. Leo needed that, to rid himself of the guilty sense that he’d failed Riario, had disappointed him. He wasn’t used to feeling guilty about disappointing anyone. Now, however, his mind kept returning to the same images; Riario’s surprised look, Lucrezia’s expression—not exactly triumph, not exactly pleasure, not exactly bitterness. Clearly the cousins had a very troubled relationship. Leo hadn’t known that—but did he need to know that to maybe have chosen _not_ to sleep with Lucrezia?

He was sick to death of his brain just running around the same track, always ending with the vivid picture of Riario’s shuttered expression before he turned and left. Leo growled with frustration, and stalked across his room to fling open the door. “Zo! Nico! Are you home? I need you!”

So now his friends were crowded into the room with him. Zo had slipped in easily—as he always did—and was leaning a desk chair on its back legs, one foot propped on Leo’s worktable for balance. He had brought an orange with him, and he played with it, as a distraction—possibly to distract Leo as well.

Nico was visibly uncomfortable; Leo had never invited him into his room before, and now he was afraid of disturbing anything for fear it was valuable. He was also surprised and nonplussed by the sheer volume of detritus Leo had scattered around the space. He picked his way across the paper-strewn floor to the bed, which at least had enough clear space for him to sit.

Of course, if Zoroaster could make the boy’s discomfort worse, he would. So he did.

“Careful, Nico. There’s no telling what unmentionable fluids have been emitted in those sheets. Nor how long it’s been since Leo changed them.” He turned a face of mock concern to his friend. “How often do you do laundry, you unrepentant sodomite? We wouldn’t want young Nico catching anything venereal while he’s still so virginal.”

Leo wadded up some loose paper and threw it at his friend. Nico gingerly got off the bed and found a spot on a relatively clear bit of carpet. He sat huddled into himself, arms wrapped around his knees.

Zo simply smiled; two reactions to a single sally was an _excellent_ hit rate. He lazily tossed the orange up and caught it. Interesting: Leo’s attention was attracted by movement of the bright object in the dark room. Zo wondered if anyone had ever tried hypnotism using fruit. Could Leo be hypnotized? The first trick there would be to get him to pay attention long enough. He made a mental note to research hypnotism when he got the chance.

Nico shifted. The floor was not comfortable, but now he didn’t dare sit back on the bed. “What’s the matter, Leo? Why’d you call us in here?”

“Yeah, Leo,” Zo echoed. “Is this some kind of counsel of war or something? Because you know that I love you and that I would drop anything for you, but shouldn’t you be off with your fucking boyfriend? Or off with your boyfriend, fucking?”

Leo didn’t answer. Instead he stood and paced the room, careless of what papers he stepped on. He circled the room like a tiger, once, twice, three times, identical paths through the clutter, then collapsed back into his chair. He scrubbed his hands over his face, and then ran them through his hair.

Zo read Leo’s body language and hooted. “No! Really? You and His Satanic Majesty had a falling out!” The gleeful surprise was rather hurtful, Leo decided. “What did you do?”

“What make you think _I’m_ the one who did something?”

Zo remained silent, but his expression was eloquent. Never at ease in a charged silence, Leo rushed to fill it. “Okay, fine! He caught me, um, with Lucrezia.” Neither Nico nor Zo had been at the gala, they didn’t know who Lucrezia was, so he had to explain and it made his humiliation complete. “She’s his cousin. She was staying at his apartment in the extra room. She and I were, um, staying in the extra room when he came home.”

Zo hooted even more loudly. “Oh please, tell me he walked in on you in a compromising position. The more compromising the better, and I want _all_ the details.”

Nico decided that, for the moment, he could be most helpful by collecting things off the floor and stacking them neatly. Definitely not calling attention to himself in any way at all.

Leo told the story, which was even more pointless and stupid when he said it out loud than it had been to live through. “So I came out of the bedroom, and he saw me, and he just left.”

“Fuck him.” He knew he could count on Zo to take his side on this. “I never got what you saw in him anyway.” Well, maybe he could count on Zo to be against Riario, which was maybe a subtle distinction. Zo rephrased his comment. “Okay, sure, the guy’s an eyeful, and I guess he must be good in bed or you’d have kicked him out long ago. Not that you have shared any details about that with me.”

Leo gave him a look. “Zo, you are not helping.”

Zo tossed the orange in the air. “What do you want, Leo? You had a fling, he caught you at it. He might be extra mad because it was with a woman, or that it was his cousin, or that is was in his home, or all three, really. Now he’s off licking his wounds. At least his wounds. Maybe something else. Or someone else.” The orange went into the air, back down again. “At least you know it’s not me, mate.”

Leo dropped the pen he was fiddling with, frustration written on his face. “God, Zo, I don’t have time for this.” He dropped his head into his hands, then curled them into fists at his temples. “I can’t think, I can’t concentrate, I need something. . . something. . .dammit Riario, where the fuck are you?” The buzz in his head was getting worse; once again he eyed the paraphernalia scattered on the shelves. Most of it had been shoved back behind more recent projects, but he knew it was still there. He could do it, it would help. It just didn’t help as much as Riario did.

Zo kept lazily tossing the orange. “Don’t know what you expect me to do about it. I’m not Dear Fucking Abby, you know. I don’t have any experience being a relationship consultant.”

On the table, Leo’s phone lit up. Zo raised his eyebrows when Leo didn’t even look at it. “If it’s not the Prince of Hell, you don’t answer calls any more?”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s nothing.” Leo’s thoughts chased around inside his head, generating that whirring sound that made it hard to focus on any one task. Sometimes the whirring whispered _Riario Riario Riario,_ which was also not helpful.

“Nothing? Then you won’t mind if I answer it.” Deftly, Zo snatched the phone before Leo even realized what was happening. “Leo da Vinci’s phone, Mr. da Vinci’s assistant speaking, how may I help you?” He winked at Leo, flashing his dimples.

“Mr. Mercury you say? And how do you spell that—like the element or the planet?” Leo rolled his eyes, as Zo snapped his fingers for a pen. Just to be perverse, Leo tossed him a fat drawing pencil. Zo flipped him off, and grabbed a random sheet of paper from the mess strewn across the table. “Spelled with an ‘I’ you say. Very good sir, I’ll be sure to tell him. And may I ask what is the purpose of this call?”

Leo went back to sketching on a new sheet of paper. Zo would draw this out as long as he was still amused by the playacting. It didn’t matter who the call was or what it was about; Leo didn’t have time for what was likely either a bill collector or someone from the university administration chasing him down for something or other. Stipend renewal forms or yet another attempt to get him to wrap up his incompletes. Or to force him to formally withdraw. He didn’t want to deal with any of that.

Zo was doodling obscene graffiti on a sketch Leo had made for a robot as he strung along the obviously hapless Mr. Mercuri. “And may I ask how you got this telephone number?” A brief pause and then, “Do you mean Dr. Riario? Doctor _Girolamo_ Riario?”

He had Leo’s attention now.


	15. Rapprochement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo reveals the difficult situation he is in, and he uses his key once more to confront Riario.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are momentarily back on track with posting! This one is a bit shorter than I have been dumping on you, which helped me to get it out on time.

Nobody wanted him to call the number and talk to the mysterious Mr. Mercuri, and Zo was the most vociferous.

“It’s an unlisted number, for fuck’s sake, Leo. Who has an unlisted number? If we can’t reverse search and find out who this Mercuri is, why should you call him?”

Leo mumbled something that included the name “Riario.”

Zo was adamant. “It is not a recommendation that he got your number from that prick, Riario. If anything, it’s a strike against him!”

Vanessa was equally worried. “You don’t know what it’s about. It could be anything. It’s not proof that Riario is looking for you.” Her voice softened. “Leo, I get it. You miss him. You want this to be about him missing you.” She put her hand over his, where it lay clenched on the dining room table. “It doesn’t make sense for him to go this ridiculously backwards way to see you. He knows where you live. He has your phone number. He could call. He could text. He could drive over here.”

Nico looked up from where he was sitting in the living room, a political science text book open on his lap. “You could go see him, you know.”

Vanessa smiled. “Yes! Exactly! Thank you Nico! You could go see him! He’s got an office. He’s got published office hours. You have a key. You can find him, you just need to do it.”

“Or don’t, which is a better idea if you ask me.” Zo didn’t want Leo chasing sketchy men from cryptic phone messages, but he really didn’t want Riario back either. They had just started playing poker again. Vanessa shot him daggers, but he just shrugged. “Things are getting back to the way they used to be. I like it that way.”

Vanessa narrowed her eyes, but turned back to Leo. “Look, you made a mistake, Leo, you were a dick. Literally. You need to go and apologize. It will be worth it, you are miserable right now. Swallow your pride. . .”

Zo interrupted, “And some other things too.” Vanessa cuffed him for that. “HEY! I’m just saying nothing says ‘I’m sorry’ like a really good blow job.”

Vanessa sighed. “You are despicable.”

Zo sulked. “I don’t want him to; I don’t want that snake slithering back in here. Sometimes I can’t help offering my brilliant observations.”

Leo didn’t seem to hear any of that. “He’s not answering my texts.”

Zo rolled his eyes. “So he’s not answering your texts, he’s not contacting you, and you think getting in touch with this unknown guy who just dropped Riario’s name is somehow going to fix that?”

Leo slammed his hands onto the table, and the noise made them all jump. “It’s not just that, okay? Yes, I fucked up. I fucked Lucrezia and he saw it. Anybody care to ask why that happened? Anybody think there might be something else going on?” His voice got louder. “Or do my so called friends think I’m such a congenital fuck up that I would just do something like that because, what, I just can’t keep my fucking pants on?”

Nico and Zo exchanged glances. Vanessa swallowed and straightened her spine. “I’m sorry, Leo, if we aren’t understanding the situation. Will you tell us? What’s going on?”

It all came out, Leo’s stupid meeting with his advisor. “He called me in, said that the department was being audited or something. Stipends for grad students were being challenged. The finance department said that I wasn’t making progress toward my degree and they couldn’t release any more funds.” He looked up at the worried faces of his friends and barked a laugh. 

“Leo, that’s terrible.” Vanessa was truly upset. 

“He told me that the university was withholding my stipends until I completed all my unfinished coursework, and that I had until the end of this semester to do it.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and spoke toward the table. “At least he had the grace to be sorry about it. I don’t think it was his choice, I think it was out of his hands.”

The rest of them looked at each other with concern. Leo continued. “So, into the flaming rubble of my life, Lucrezia showed up and she told me that I was wasting my time in school; that I should be out making a fortune in business. She told me she knew how to get my art to dealers, she could get me into a good lab. She said I didn’t have to be wasting my talent and being poor. And now there’s this call from this Mercuri fellow, and he might be the answer to my situation.”

Zo tried to make sense of the situation. “Look, I’m sure there’s a way the school could--” but Leo cut him off.

“No! Look, even if I wanted to finish all these projects, I’m not sure it’s physically possible before the end of the semester. Plus, it’s not clear what I am expected to live on while I do that. Or I could take those projects to a tech company, get some support and some real funding, and develop them that way. Lucrezia was right, you know. I’m a fool to stay someplace that is going to jerk me around like this.” He looked up, at three ridiculously concerned faces.

“This isn’t about Riario, and it isn’t about Lucrezia, and it isn’t about Mercuri. It’s about my ideas and my future, and I am not going to let anyone kick me around and demand that I act grateful for it at the same time.” He stood up, abruptly, and the chair toppled behind him. 

He left the room, ignoring the stunned faces of his friends, and phoned Lucrezia.

“Yes, I have heard of Wolf Mercuri—he works at a software company out on Route 128. They are always looking for good computer science prospects.” He could hear her taking a sip of something, and the image of her drinking her mimosas shimmered before his eyes. “He’s a good lead. No, I didn’t contact him—I haven’t talked to anybody about you. I wasn’t sure you wanted me to.”

That was good to know—he might be able to land on his feet without further help from Riario’s cousin. Under the circumstances, he preferred to think he could do it on his own. “Thank you, Lucrezia.”

Her laugh trilled down his spine. “Let me know what happens, will you, Leo? I find I have quite an interest in how this develops.”

He called the mysterious Mr. Mercuri, and scheduled an interview for the following week. Only then did he use the key that he still kept around his neck. When he got there, the office was empty, but he had planned to wait. It took a couple of hours, and then Riario did not seem particularly surprised to see him, nor did he seem particularly pleased either.

“Leo.”

Leo was seated in the chair behind the desk, one foot on the wooden surface. “You didn’t answer my texts.”

Riario set down the papers he was carrying, and stepped over to the window to adjust the shades. “No, I didn’t. I had some things to consider.”

“Oh, and have you come to a conclusion?”

Riario swung around. Damn it—how was he in the wrong? How was it that Leo could sleep with his cousin, break into his office, and arrange it so Riario was the one who owed him an apology? He was looking at that damned key, the key that he used to break into Riario’s life and create the mess he was looking at now. A mess where he had a bright future, one clear of his father’s influence, a beautiful woman waiting for him, and all he wanted to do now was smack that boy, shake him and then kiss him stupid.

“I have—not. Not entirely.”

“Someone’s been dropping your name. Under the circumstances, I thought I should know if you are behind this job offer. Because I might prefer to not be beholden to you. Under the circumstances.”

Riario immediately stopped fiddling with the books on his shelf and snapped around. “What job offer?”

Leo dropped his foot off the desk and straightened his posture. “Oh, so you didn’t have anything to do with a Mr. Wolf Mercuri contacting me this week? Funny. He specifically mentioned your name. He seemed to think I would be more interested that way.”

Riario tried to remember; the name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. Wolf Mercuri? Mentioned his name? What the hell was he talking about? “I don’t think I know anybody with that name, Leo. What company was he with?”

Leo had a weirdly excited air about him, one that his façade of casual unconcern did not successfully obscure. “He’s with Security Archives. Looking for programmers. Says you mentioned me as a genius with code.”

Riario knew about Security Archives, and what he knew was not good. “Leo, please don’t talk to Mercuri. He works with my father. Security Archives is a subsidiary, I’m almost certain of it. He’s part of DRV, a shell company or something. I don’t know exactly, but he’s certainly in my father’s pocket. Talking to Mercuri is like putting your head in the lion’s mouth.”

“Well, that may not be a strike against it. The enemy of my enemy is my friend?”

Riario sighed. “Do you think we are enemies?”

Leo slapped his palm against the desk. The sound reverberated. “What am I supposed to think? You disappeared. You didn’t return any calls or texts. You avoided me. I had no chance to talk to you, to even apologize, to do anything at all to explain, or to beg forgiveness, to fight it out with you—nothing at all.” He picked up a pen, turned it over and over between his fingers. “You have no idea what I might have said to you, because you never gave me a chance.”

It stung, because it was true. It was also a massively self-serving framing of the situation. Riario took a moment to choose his next words carefully. “There is—a lot going on. There was a lot going on for me, right then, in the moment. Here’s the thing.” He expelled a huge breath—he hadn’t realized he was holding it. He folded onto the couch, his hands clasped and dangling between his knees. “I have a complicated history with my cousin. I don’t even want to have to tell you about it, because I don’t want to live through it again, not even that much. Let us just say that I don’t trust Lulu, and you shouldn’t either.”

Leo looked skeptical. “In my experience, distrust runs both directions. I’m sure she would tell me not to trust you.”

Riario looked up through the heavy fringe of his hair. It was longer than usual, black as coal and it drank in the light. Leo wanted to touch it, wanted to draw it, wanted to push it back from those dark eyes and tangle his fingers in it. Like he used to. He wanted to feel that softness feathering down his skin, sliding from his chest to his navel, sweeping along behind Riario’s velvet kisses. He wanted to be sprawled on that couch where Riario was now sitting, the leather sticking slightly to his sweaty naked back as Riario stripped him and dominated him, with mouth and tongue until he cried out his lover’s name. He wanted that, and he wanted explanations, and he knew instinctively that he could not have both. 

With a mental shake, Leo forced himself to listen to Riario’s words, when all he wanted to do was watch those delicate lips move.

“I didn’t expect Lulu to be there—in the apartment, I mean. There was no reason for her to be in Boston. I have reason to believe that she was there because she knew I was going to be gone.”

Leo spun the pen viciously and rolled his eyes. “Yes, that’s another thing. You were gone. Disappeared. No word, no warning. Just gone.”

Riario stilled, his eyes narrowed. Leo fidgeted under the keen gaze. “We have never been accountable to each other. I was under the assumption that you preferred it that way.”

Okay, yes, true. Objectively accurate. Was it admitting too much if he told Riario that he missed him? “I’d gotten used to having you around. If something had happened to you, I would never know.” He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “After Maine, I thought I meant more to you than that.”

“What has she been telling you?” There was an edge to Riario’s voice, something Leo had never heard before. It was cold and dangerous, exciting really, and it raised gooseflesh down his spine.

“What makes you think Lucrezia has been saying anything to me?” That was the right response—bold and confrontational.

“That’s how she works, Leo. I recognize the modus operandi.” Riario could feel the balance of the room shifting back his direction, back to the old dynamic where Leo was the chaotic force that sought to be dominated. He might be able to save the poor beautiful fool yet. 

“Lulu is very good at what she does, and a significant part of what she does is run errands for my father. He tells her to go fetch some new toy he wants, and she trots off to bring it to him.” Riario shifted his own position, leaning back against the couch, with an arm stretched along the back. He rested an ankle on the opposite knee, taking up more space, expansive in his reclaimed power. “I didn’t expect to see her at the apartment that morning, because there was no reason for her to be there. Think about it for a second, Leo.” 

His dark brown eyes bored into Leo’s amber ones. “Lulu has a life and a career in New York. Ostensibly. What was she doing in Boston? What was she doing in Boston while I was conveniently elsewhere? Do you think she just happened to find you—the one person in the entire Eastern Seaboard who had ties to me? And then she just happened to take you back to my apartment, and I just happened to come back and find you there?” Riario blinked slowly. “As I said, she is very good at what she does.”

It was that blink, lazy and deliberate, that destroyed Leo. It seemed to speak to something deep inside him, the recognition of the power of the predator. Not that he was ready to let Riario know that; if Leo was anything, he was stubborn. But he knew he had already lost the battle. 

He was not going to give up without a fight, however. “Are you saying that the only reason she wanted to sleep with me was to get to you?” He tried for a sarcastic laugh, and was pleased with the result. “That is so obnoxious I can’t even believe you said that out loud.” Leo leaned back in the chair and propped his foot against the desk again. No, he didn’t actually believe Riario could pull him across the room with his magnetism, but it didn’t hurt to slow things down a little. He knew he wanted to climb into that black lap and turn himself over to those long fingers. It was a matter of when, not if, but he felt entitled to make Riario wait at least a little bit. For a little of his own back, for his own pride’s sake.

Riario heard the sarcasm in that laugh, but it rang just hollow enough to betray the effort. The tension in the room shifted again, and he could feel time slow down. He was fully in control again, he knew he could decide how this confrontation would end. It was important that Leo understand how dangerous Alessandro and Lucrezia were, so he didn’t make any moves that could get them both caught. 

It was also important that Leo was wearing one of this stretched out tee shirts, thin with wear, the neck lying low on his chest. Kicked back in the chair like that, he had inadvertently managed to look precisely like he did propped against his headboard, watching Riario travel between his thighs. Riario could feel the rush of heat thrilling through his veins and lodging in a knot nestled low in his belly. It had been too long since he’d taken Leo apart as thoroughly as he wanted to now.

He could wait a little longer. There were still things they had to hash out before he would do what Leo clearly wanted him to do.

“Did I say that? I certainly did not intend to.” He let his gaze slide over Leo’s body. “Lulu has exquisite taste in male beauty; she would have--relished you--in any event.” He let his voice rasp as he drew out the vowels on the word “relished,” and was rewarded with seeing Leo’s breath hitch. “No, I am sure she had no objection to this particular task.”

Leo was finding it hard to breathe again; how did the room suddenly get so close? He swallowed with some difficulty, and tried to find the righteous outrage he had used to bring himself to this point. “But you think there’s something else going on? Or are you just making up a story to soothe yourself because there’s something twisted between you and your cousin, and I’m just the prize you are telling yourself isn’t worth trying to win?”

That was a unique spin on the situation, and it reminded Riario forcibly that this was the same cocky Leo who had introduced himself in this very office as “somebody worth knowing.” It took someone as self-assured as Leo to take what should be an embarrassing situation—he got caught cheating with a woman! Literally with his pants down!—and to turn it into Riario’s failure to “win the prize.”

“Again, I hope I haven’t said such a thing.” He tilted his head back so that his eyes were hooded and sleepy looking. “If you were merely a prize, you would still be worth the taking.” A slight emphasis on that last word, a drop in pitch, and even Leo could not miss the sexual demand. How many times had he already had this boy, and here he was, wooing him again like a virgin! But worth the wooing, his body reminded him. Worth demonstrating to Leo that his own patience was not inexhaustible.

“If it were a fair contest, if Lulu were truly after you on her own terms, I would sit back and allow you the right to make your own choice, artista.” He purred the pet name, loved the way Leo’s body twitched at the sound. “If Lulu was what you wanted, I would step aside gracefully. But that is not who she is, and her timing is particularly suspect.”

Riario stood suddenly, with that cat-like speed he had, and he stalked over to a stack of papers on the desk. With deft fingers, he sorted through the pages, selected one and dropped it in front of Leo. “I am about to escape my father’s influence. He is not one to allow such disobedience without taking counter-measures. It is possible that he has set Lulu on you because he wants you for your own merits; I have no doubt that he has several projects where you would be invaluable to him. It is possible that he is attempting to forestall my escape by jeopardizing you. He may have used Lulu in an attempt to turn us against each other, so he could scoop us both up. Or this may all be a game to him; I don’t claim to fully understand the workings of his labyrinthine brain. It is possible that he is playing all the possible outcomes, and intends to decide later which result will be worth the effort.”

Leo looked down at the single sheet of paper. It was a heavy cream stock, with an elaborate bright blue and red seal. The gilt Gothic lettering spelled out “Imola College.” The first paragraph leapt out, as if the font was outsized. “Dear Dr. Riario; It is with great pleasure that we extend a formal offer of employment with our institution, beginning with the Fall semester.”

If asked, Leo would confidently say he was a genius, but he still read the paper over several times before looking up into the dark eyes across the desk. “You are leaving?”

“Yes, Leo, of course I am leaving. My appointment ends this semester. I will have finished my book, and my time here will have run out. I had a choice to either accept the positions my father was grooming me for, or I could find a permanent academic position.” He looked down at the unassuming white paper. “I fully intend to accept that position. I no longer care to be a puppet for my father. I was considering---“ he swept his eyes over Leo’s body again. “Whether it would be appropriate, or even welcome, for me to ask if you would care to come with me.”

Leo dropped his foot with a thud, surprised by this turn of events. All of the turns, really; he’d had no idea there was so much in play and he was a little stunned by Riario’s imminent departure and the invitation to accompany him.

“Of course, the situation is complicated. I understand,” Riario continued smoothly. “You have your studies, your friends. Imola has no graduate programs, and is quite rural, so it would be an enormous change for you.” Deliberately, he leaned closer to Leo, well within arm’s reach. “Then, there is the matter of Lulu.”

The hot breath over his skin, the dark eyes pouring into him; Leo broke. He grabbed Riario’s shirt with both hands and pulled him across the desk, desperate to get his mouth on him. It could have been a disaster, he could have toppled the two of them and overturned the chair. Something would have broken, certainly. But Riario had apparently anticipated this, or he simply refused to let Leo dominate him. With a flex of his abdominal muscles (and Leo realized he was thinking distinctly of those abdominals) he had Leo pulled half over the desk. It was a matter of a twisting motion, and the younger man was sprawled out beneath him. Riario hovered, resting on forearms on either side of Leo’s head, his body bearing down from knees to groin.

“I think, Leo, that Lucrezia is going to find that she has lost this particular prize.” He dove in, swift and precise, prising open Leo’s mouth while pressing his hips insistently. 

Leo knew this was no answer, it wasn’t even a response to all the information he’d just learned. All he could say was “God, Riario, yes.”

*****

Leo knew here was a great deal more they had to discuss. Riario didn’t know about Leo’s dismissal from the school—the flaming ruins of his life. He hadn’t decided about the interview with Mercuri at Security Archives; would he go? It couldn’t hurt to go, to find out what his options might be. He could (theoretically) call Lucrezia again, take her up on her offer to put him in touch with people who could help him professionally.

Meanwhile, though, there was Riario again. He craved Riario like a starving man, realizing how much he needed the silence in his head. That was something Lulu hadn’t quite done for him. No matter how talented her fingers and tongue, she couldn’t force him out of his thoughts. Riario, on the other hand, placed long fingers along his jawbone, stared into his eyes, and the roaring quieted. Leo could feel himself go boneless, tumbled onto the leather couch, his tee shirt shredded across his chest. Had Riario done that, or had he done it himself? It was entirely possible, he was so desperate for skin contact, for touch.

Honestly, he didn’t remember much after grabbing Riario’s shirt and trying to crush their mouths together. There had been a moment of lying on the desk, odd bits of office supplies pressing into his back. Soon enough, they had crossed the room together, and in the process, Leo had clearly dropped his coat and the shirt had gotten shredded. Now he was feeling the slight chill of the leather sofa on his back, which warmed to his skin temperature as Riario unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them open. And even that he barely noticed, because Riario was dragging his mouth across Leo’s chest, leaving slick trails that chilled as the air hit them. Until—oh yes, please, Riario—he brushed his soft beard over Leo’s nipple and Leo arched his spine to chase the sensation. More, god yes, more.

It was a way of being entirely embodied—for a change he wasn’t thinking about anything, just experiencing each second. Each second was a surprise—the heat of Riario’s kiss on his mouth, the crush of his lips against teeth, the teasing invasion of tongue lasted forever because there was no “next” to think about. There was only the concentration on the kiss, so the fingers trailing down his chest to tweak a nipple were entirely unexpected and he chased that sensation. 

Usually, Leo experienced his body as something that got in the way of his brain—it needed sleep and food, all kinds of care that interrupted him in the middle of exciting experiments. With Riario, though, the warmth of Riario’s hand on his skin, the way his breath first warmed and then chilled him, the delicate dance of Riario’s tongue across his belly, the hot grind of his hips, these all existed entirely alone, as separate events. His brain had slowed to the point that he couldn’t even anticipate Riario’s next touch, his next move. Yes, his jeans were unbuttoned and open, but did he immediatiely slide them down his thighs, or had he pinched a nipple first? Or slide a hand around to grab the meat of his ass? He didn’t know, it didn’t matter in the least, he was surrounded and invaded by the body he needed. 

Boneless and naked, he bared his body and was relieved beyond words when Riario claimed it. His life might be in flaming ruins, but he hadn’t lost everything yet.


	16. I Can Hear It Coming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am terrible at these summaries, but let's try this:
> 
> The semester is ending. Things are changing, and school is no longer a safe haven. Leo is casting about for his next move, and Zo is doing his best to protect his friend. But tempers are prickly, and things aren't going as smoothly as before. Pieces are falling apart, and it's not clear they can be put back together again. Riario has to confront his greatest antagonist as well, and the danger feels very real.

The house was quiet tonight. Everybody was out, which meant Zo had the place to himself, so he was indulging his current erotic passion at the dinner table.

The new Mexican place that had just opened near the Square made a burrito that was—swear on his mother’s grave (although she was still alive, so it technically wasn’t a binding oath)—the size of his own forearm. Really, it would be easier to consume the thing if he could actually unhinge his jaw like a snake. He’d also filched a bottle—well, two bottles, okay three if you had to be accurate—of the really good beer that Julian had left in the fridge.

Hey, he wasn’t here, and it didn’t have his name on it. Or any sort of Zo-proof lock. If he didn’t want to share, he wouldn’t have left it. It didn’t make sense to rely on honor among thieves, not when a really good beer was on the line.

Chewing thoughtfully, Zo was absorbed in the ethics of income inequality on a shared refrigerator, when the front door opened. There was a stealthiness to the way the handle turned, and the slow way a dark figure edged inside. Leo, obviously—nobody else in the house had those shoulders or hair that stood straight up like that.

But this stealth was not Leo’s usual style. Far from it—Leo usually barged through any opening as if the concept of “door” held no meaning for him, or even was a personal affront. So rather than calling out an insult as a greeting, Zo took a moment to look at his housemate, to really _observe_ him.

Late April in Cambridge was mild this year, so it was odd for Leo to have his coat buttoned like that. Again, not his usual style; even in the coldest months, it was even odds whether he could be bothered to fasten up, like the Platonic ideal of an absent minded genius, he was usually too distracted by what was going on inside his own brain to notice the weather. No, that buttoned up look was not Leo at all, in fact it looked more like. . .

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, Leo, you’re fucking Riario again!”

The explosion made Leo jump, startled because he hadn’t seen Zo in the darkened room. Yes, definitely, it was surprise and it wasn’t guilty conscience at all. So there was no need to go on the defensive—it was only Zo, and Zo he could (probably) disarm or distract.

“Two ‘fuckings’ in one sentence, Zo? Can’t imagine how you got into college with a limited vocabulary like that. Was your Verbal SAT score over 300?”

“Fuck you, Leo, because not only is ‘fucking’ the fucking most versatile word in the fucking English language, but you aren’t denying it either. Fucking Riario!”

Leo smiled. “And you prove your point, Zo. Are you using ‘fucking’ there as an adjective or a verb?”

Zo set down his burrito and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, angry disappointment radiating like heat off his body. “Do we have to fetch over a fucking _exorcist_ for you, Leo? You are already back with that fucking incubus Riario, after all he’s put you through? Dammit, you haven’t got the self-preservation instinct that God gave lemmings.”

“Actually, Zo, lemmings are not self destructive. That’s a myth—“ He had been prepared to elaborate, but Zo literally knocked over his chair in his haste to put his hand across Leo’s mouth.

“Will you _just stop fucking talking and listen to me?_ ” Up close, Zo was able to take in more details; the reason Leo’s coat was buttoned was because he was bare chested underneath it. “Is that what happened to your shirt? Fucking Riario? Because I am pretty certain I would have noticed you leaving here half naked like that.”

With a snap, Leo pulled his head away from Zo’s hand, no longer embarrassed, but mad. “Don’t you touch me, Peretola, and don’t you presume to lecture me either. This is none of your business and you can very kindly just fuck off.” He turned and headed toward his room, as Zo muttered under his breath.

“Fuck it—lemmings are fucking _survivalists_ compared to you.” Loud enough for Leo to hear, he called out. “Okay, you are right. If you want to consort with demons, that’s your choice and I will stay out of it.” A pause, some calculation, and then a peace overature. “Julian left some of his good beer. Join me?”

At least he didn’t close the door, Zo thought. That was a sign—instead of disappearing, he might be coming out again. The muffled sounds from the room could even be Leo looking for a shirt. It was—Leo emerged in another old tee, his hair looking even more ridiculous. Zo went into the kitchen and came out with two more bottles. Well, he wasn’t going to make Leo drink alone, was he?

Leo sat down, and eyed the enormous burrito as Zo went back to it. “Carnitas? Did they put an entire pig into that monstrosity?”

Zo just smiled as he chewed, looking beatifically at his friend. “Guaranteed to keep _you_ from trying to take some. And really, isn’t it spiritually better to use the whole animal?”

Leo rolled his eyes, but smiled. He looked calm enough that Zo risked a little more ribbing. “So, are you really back with that prick, Riario? Need any help chalking a pentagram on the floor of your room? Because I’m pretty sure you could just skip the texting and summon him directly that way. We’d probably have to find some black candles though.”

Leo reached across the table to smack Zo lightly upside his head. “Are you jealous?” He went into the kitchen, and came back with a container of some kind of food and a fork in one hand, a sketchbook and drawing pencil in the other.

Whatever it was in the container, it looked both slimy and unappetizing, and Zo could not resist commenting. “What is that, and _why_ do you think it’s food?”

Leo didn’t slow down his eating. “Quinoa and marinated vegetables. And I know it’s guaranteed to be safe from _you_ eating it.”

“Fair enough.” Zo took a long pull from the bottle of Julian’s beer. “Not even your taste in men is as bad as your taste in food. And that is saying something.” Leo didn’t even rise to the bait. Instead, he flipped open the sketch book and began scribbling. He didn’t even have to stop eating—being ambidextrous had its advantages, Zo had to admit.

“Speaking of your terrible taste in men. Now that you are apparently back with Beelzebub, have you canceled that interview with Mercuri?”

Leo had a large number of tells, and Zo knew them all. He had played poker with him for years and knew them well enough that he could recognize all their variations based on the size of the lies Leo was planning to offer. They ranged from the subtle narrowing of his eyes (which meant he was lying by omission) to what he was doing now—a full body stretch, that ended with his right hand on the back of his neck, elbow pointed up. This was the biggest tell he had, and it meant that he was going to tell his biggest lie. Sometimes it even meant he was lying to himself, and that was the hardest lie to deal with.

“Well, no. I’m going to take the interview.”

“For fuck’s sake, Leo, what in the hell are you thinking?”

“Look, I don’t have much time, okay? My stipend has been pulled, I’ve basically been kicked out of Harvard, I don’t really have many choices right now, do it?”

Zo wanted to throw something, smash something against a wall, or just whack Leo over the head until he realized how utterly dangerous and stupid he was being. “Yes you do, Leo. You have a lot of choices, you useless sack of bollocks. You could spend the time clearing those fucking incompletes off your record. People don’t get kicked out of Harvard for being geniuses.” He took a breath, tried to sound reasonable. He _was_ reasonable, dammit. “Nobody wants you kicked out of Harvard. You make some decent progress, and your professors agree you’ve met the minimums and you get yourself reinstated. Why would you just give up like this?”

“Because it’s not Harvard pulling the strings, okay?” His voice was loud and his eyes were suddenly wild, and he hadn’t intended to say this, not to Zo. Zo would catch on—he would make the connections and figure out the trouble he was in. He needed to cover up this slip, he needed to say something to distract his friend before—

But it was already too late. “You think there’s something going on? Has Riario done something? Is this is revenge for that Lucrezia business? Because that seems disproportionate to me—even actual Satan, ruler of the realms of punishment, would say ‘Woah, even I wouldn’t have gone that far.’”

Leo’s good humor had evaporated again. “Dammit, Zo, lay off Riario will you?” He ran his hands through his hair, making it stand up again. “No, for the record, _Riario_ had nothing to do with this. He doesn’t know anything about it.” Well, he hadn’t told Riario about it, but he was sure it would have come up. In the conversation about going to Imola—Riario clearly thought he was still planning to finish his degrees. Leo was confident that his precarious academic standing was still a secret there.

“Oh fuuuuuuuuck, Leo.” Zo’s eyes were suddenly huge, his habitual smile was gone. “You think this is that fuckwad della Rovere’s doing?” This time he did throw something, one of the empty bottles of Julian’s good beer. It made a satisfactory thud against the wall, but didn’t break. Which was too bad, since Zo would have appreciated getting to hear a second, satisfying chime as the pieces fell to the wood floor. Instead, it was just another duller thud, followed by the sound of it rolling to a stop underneath the table. “Dammit, Leo, he is dangerous. He’s gone to the trouble of getting you _kicked out of school_? This is a trap, you know it is.”

Leo didn’t flinch at the sound of the breaking glass; he knew Zo thought this was aware this was stupidly dangerous, but he really felt he had to understand _all_ his options and he didn’t have much time left. It was already mid-April. The semester ended in less than three weeks.

“Yes, Zo, I am aware that Wolf Mercuri works for a subsidiary company of DRV, and it is precisely because I know that, that it is not a trap. Not for me anyway.”

Zo couldn’t believe what he was hearing, the precise diction, the stilted grammar. “You’ve been talking to Riario about this. That’s not Leo talking, that’s Riario. Has he encouraged you? Why isn’t he talking you out of this? Leo! Leo, this is not good. This isn’t what you want! You don’t want to be working for the fucking Architect of Death, not even in a separate corporate subsidiary! God _damn_ it, Leo, will you look at me?”

Because Leo was definitely avoiding eye contact. Zo knew that trick too. It meant that he was close—not accurate, his guesses were still wide of the mark, but he was too close for Leo to fabricate a story out of whole cloth, and with smaller lies he would spot the seams. “Leo, Leo, this is me, your friend, your old friend Zoroaster. We’ve been through a lot together, mate, and you can _trust_ me, you know you can.” He was trying to get Leo’s attention back now, to re-establish that connection the two of them had always been able to count on—or used to be able to, before Riario had happened in their lives. It was hard to believe it was only what, four months ago—that their lives had been blissfully Riario-free. Pre-Riarian.

“Riario is not the villain here, Zo. He’s been talking, to me, and I can benefit from this.”

This was it, this was the final straw as far as Zo was concerned. “You can _benefit_? He’s leading you into a fucking _abattoir_ , and you think you are going to get out of it to your _benefit_?”

It wasn’t enough that the silky bastard had insinuated himself into Leo’s life, had colonized his brain, had ruined poker nights, had effectively stolen their friend away. Sure, Leo still technically lived here, but he was basically gone; even when his body was present his mind was off somewhere else. It was worse than the drugs, in some ways, because at least he shared the drugs. He’d come out of his room, blurry and happy, he’d offer hits off his bong, or some colorful pills, and he’d sit up with them in the dark living room, talking shit philosophy and trying to see who could make Nico blush the hardest.

In the post-Riario world, though, Leo was either on a manic tear through projects, locked in his room and unwilling to step out, or he was with Riario. Whether they were in the house, or away from it, “with Riario” was a separate geography that refused Zo at its borders. He hated it, he absolutely hated it, but he’d banked that hatred like a fire, covered it with ashes so the coals could smolder but wouldn’t flare to life. Because he knew Leo, _knew_ him, and knew that any opposition to his addiction (and make no mistake, Riario was an addiction and Zo knew that too) would cause him to dig in his heels and defend the man, even in the face of undeniable evidence that Riario was trouble.

And here it was. That same undeniable evidence of trouble. If it hadn’t been for Riario, Leo wouldn’t be about to step into the lion’s den and get eaten alive. Leo was smart, no question, smarter than anybody Zo had even heard about, including Einstein and Leibnitz and Richard Fucking Feynman. But he was also not savvy—savvy was what Zo did, savvy was what he brought to the table and what kept Leo safe and free to be brilliant. Because one person really couldn’t be both brilliant and savvy at the same time—they required completely opposite skill sets, and a Leo who tried to be savvy wouldn’t be the Leo who had invented the things he invented. A savvy Leo would never have taken Vanessa’s measuring cups, because a savvy Leo would have fucking known better.

So this was a disaster, and Zo couldn’t figure out how to stop it. So he did what anyone else faced with an immovable object would do—he tried to apply more force. He needed to call in Vanessa and Nico to back him up, to present a united front, to get Leo to just stop being so damned stubborn and listen to reason.

Since the interview was coming up quickly, there wasn’t time to meet and develop a strategy. But then Zo wasn’t really the kind of person who planned things out in advance. If he were that kind of person, he would have missed out on a lot: those redheaded siblings, for example, or that blonde on the train back from D.C. in January. Flying by the seat of his pants was his _modus operandi_ , his superpower, his preferred way of living, so he didn’t stop to consider whether this was a good idea, or whether he should lay any groundwork first.

No, in true Zoroastrian fashion, the next time everyone was in the house at once, he simply went to the door of Leo’s room and called across the house. “Vanessa! Nico! House Meeting in Leo’s room now!”

Nico was closest, the room he shared with Zo was on the same side of the house, but he was still nervous about entering Leo’s room, so he lingered in the hallway until Vanessa was there to walk in with him. Vanessa herself took a few minutes to exit her bedroom, and she closed the door carefully behind her. Zo raised an eyebrow; was Julian there already? Was that why she was smoothing her curls as she crossed the living room? _Interesting_. He waggled his eyebrows at her, and she simply gave him a stare that was the equivalent of dumping a glass of ice water down the front of his pants. Which she had actually done before, so Zo knew exactly what that felt like.

Once inside Leo’s room, Nico hovered near the door, in case it became advisable to exit quickly. Leo was seated at his worktable, deliberately ignoring Zo by sketching in a notebook. Vanessa arranged herself primly on Leo’s (unmade as usual) bed, after a couple of deft flicks of the covers to approximate tidiness. Zo paced for a few minutes, the silence broken only by the sound of Leo’s sketching.

There was no telling how long they would have just sat there, but Vanessa had more interesting things to do with her time. “Okay, Zo, we’re all here. Do you need help getting started? It’s pretty standard to say something like ‘Perhaps you are wondering why I have gathered you here tonight.’”

Nico brightened up at that, and smiled at her. “Have you found a body? Are we all murder suspects? Are you going to reveal which of us is the culprit?”

At least Zo stopped pacing. “The issue before the assembled roommates,” he intoned, earning an eye roll from Vanessa, “is whether our friend, the defendant Leo da Vinci, is too stupid to be allowed to conduct his own affairs any longer, and should be subject to the governing power of those of us assembled here, as he is obviously no longer of sound mind.”

“Zo.” Vanessa’s voice was kind, but her expression was stern. “Can you skip the dramatics and just tell us what this is about?” She looked at Leo, who was a picture of unconcern. “Leo is as entitled to make bad choices as the rest of us are, and frankly, I would worry about setting a bad precedent if I were you. I think it’s a close question as to which of the two of you has made more poor decisions.”

Leo mouthed “Thank you” at Vanessa, who smiled tightly. She was not going to be playing favorites until she knew what this was all about.

Zo swung around, and faced her. “Okay, first of all, I want to point out that none of this would have happened if Leo weren’t involved in a troubling relationship with that illegitimate demon spawn, Riario. I think his decision-making powers are demonstrably already compromised given that he’s still fucking that bastard on the regular, and all but writing ‘Mrs. Leo Riario’ on his notebooks.” With his best sleight of hand, he grabbed the notebook Leo was writing in, and without even looking at it, displayed it to both Vanessa and Nico.

There was no disputing that the face looking out from the pages was indeed Riario’s. There was a three-quarter profile sketch that was starting to look three-dimensional as Leo filled in the shadows, a couple of studies of dark eyes under strong brows, and an unmistakable long-fingered hand, all scattered around the page.

Nico looked surprised, Vanessa looked disgusted by Zo; neither was the reaction Zo was looking for. He had expected some support; surely he couldn’t be the only person who saw Riario as destructive, could he? Well, there was still the main issue. So he tossed the notebook back at Leo, who looked both pissed and embarrassed. Which meant he was going to dig his heels in and be stubborn about the whole thing. This was not going well.

“Okay, the main issue is that Leo, who we all care about and want to see be happy _and alive_ , made an appointment to literally sell his soul to Lucifer. Which is to say, he intends to interview with someone who works for Alessandro della Rovere in one of the DRV companies. He did this, I submit, _solely_ for the purpose of tracking down the serpent Riario. Said serpent has been located, Leo has crawled back in bed with him, there is no reason for him to walk into the fucking hellmouth that is DRV. But he is going to do it anyway. The idiot has obviously lost his fucking mind and it is up to us to save him, since he is obviously not going to save himself.”

At the final summation, Zo deliberately turned his back on his audience, and bent over the work table, getting as close to Leo as he could, forcing his friend to look him in the eye and see just how serious this situation was. To his credit, Zo had to admit, Leo did. Leo looked him in the eye, and _did not blink._ Fucking hell.

Vanessa interrupted the stare-down. “Zo, Are you sure about this? I mean, it’s just an interview. It’s not like he’s selling himself into indentured servitude or anything.”

Oh hell, no. If Vanessa didn’t see the danger, this was going to go _very badly_. “Nessa, darling, you didn’t read all the background information I dug up. Hell, even if you had, you wouldn’t realize how dangerous this whole thing is, because you don’t know how hard it was to dig up what I did manage to find. This is a place that operates, top to bottom, on unquestioning loyalty to a man who makes Vlad the Impaler look genial. And it is _beyond_ secretive. It’s the corporate equivalent of a black hole—nothing that goes in there ever comes out. Information just disappears. _People_ just disappear.”

Nico coughed, and then cleared his throat for good measure. “Um, Zo, are you sure? Because people just don’t disappear if they don’t want to.” Vanessa looked at him encouragingly, while Zo’s face turned thunderous. So Nico addressed himself to Vanessa.

“People have cell phones, right? They can be tracked. And anyway, everybody knows where Security Archives is. They recruit on campus and everything. I don’t think it could be that dangerous if everybody knows who they are, could they?”

Vanessa nodded. “Yes, of course, Nico, you are right. If Security Archives was dangerous, they wouldn’t be allowed on campus. Especially if they _disappeared_ all their recruits, Zo.” Vanessa was irritated, because this was a waste of her time and she had something better to do with that time, and he was waiting in the other room.

Nico laughed. “Yeah, you would think somebody would notice if everybody who went to work there never came back. It would seriously affect alumni donations.”

Even Leo looked up to bark a laugh at that.

Zo crossed his arms over his chest and looked furiously at all three of them. “Do none of you see the danger here? I mean, I expect that from Leo, because he’s emotionally compromised and demonstrably _non compos mentis_. But I can’t believe you guys are not with me on this! Vanessa, I know this isn’t about ballet, so you maybe you don’t understand how truly fucked up DRV is. But Julian would understand. He knows as much about DRV as is public, which is pretty much the same as what I know. Ask him, he’ll tell you.”

Nico could tell immediately that Zo had seriously misfired. Vanessa had stiffened at the mention of her dance program—well, Zo should have known better. Vanessa was always defensive about her program—she felt the rest of them didn’t take her seriously because she wasn’t in an “intellectual” degree program. _Nico_ believed she worked just as hard as any of the rest of them, possibly harder, and there was plenty of academic content in her program—it wasn’t _just_ dancing. But even worse was Zo basically telling her that she couldn’t be trusted to make a decision without consulting her boyfriend. Vanessa was _never_ going to take that kind of patronizing behavior from anybody.

And she didn’t. Instead, she simply stood up and stalked toward the door. She nodded coldly at Zo, and stopped to look into Leo’s eyes. “You make the decisions that seem right to you. It’s your life, they are your mistakes to make.” She looked over her shoulder at Zo. “If they are mistakes.” She brushed past Nico, who stepped aside hastily as she went.

Zo watched her leave, his face frozen in surprise. He turned to Nico, as his last potential ally. “Nico, back me up here. You see it, don’t you?”

Nico was uncomfortably aware of two sets of eyes glaring at him. Whatever was going on here, it was _way_ above his pay grade and there was no way he was going to come out of a battle royale between the two most stubborn people he knew. This was why you never got involved in a land war in Asia either. There was no “win.”

“Look, why are you even asking me? What do I know? I mean, I know Riario’s reputation in the department, and that’s about it. And everybody says he’s brilliant and ruthless and knows everything. So ask him! It’s his father you’re all worked up about. If it’s dangerous, he’s not going to want Leo going there. If he thinks it’s okay for Leo to go, then it’s gotta be safe, right?”

Leo didn’t even look up from his sketching, and his voice was unusually sullen. “He doesn’t want me to go either. He’s been trying to talk me out of it too. Congratulations, Zo, you’ve finally ended up on Team Riario. Are you going to get matching tee shirts?”

Zo took a deep breath, obviously in preparation to continue the argument, but Nico slipped out of the door and straight out of the house. He stopped only to grab his backpack, and even before he reached the sidewalk, he could hear an epic shouting match. The library was looking very attractive as a place to spend the next, oh, eight to ten hours? 

*****

It was still April when Riario finished his book. He sent the last chapter revisions to the publisher, the work was formally accepted, and a publication date was set. He accepted the position at Imola, and informed his department of his plans. 

They held a small, congratulatory reception for him, on the last day of classes for the semester. It was held in the same room where he had given his earlier talk on intraterritorial recolonization. It was attended by many of the same students and faculty who had been at the earlier presentation. Which made the interloper stand out.

To be fair, he might have been noticeable; he was dressed better than the students, certainly, even though he looked to be the same age as the undergraduates. He was also not hovering up the wine and sandwiches like he had been living on ramen for weeks.

It was not that Riario _recognized_ him, exactly, but there was something _familiar_ about him. Something about the expression on his face, or the set of his shoulders, that niggled at the edges of Riario’s conscious mind, even as he accepted the hearty congratulations from the dean and made small talk with the faculty.

This unknown young man stayed in the background, hovering unobtrusively. It was as the room began to empty that he approached, and Riario felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was the eyes. He had seen that same mix of fear and bravado in the young men who worked for his father. He had seen it in his own mirror, not long enough ago.

“Dr. Riario? My name is Jacob Salt.”

Riario dropped some papers into his leather bag. “And you are here to take me to my father.”

Jacob Salt looked a little surprised—but not so much that he lost that tell-tale expression. He ran a hand down his tie and said, “There is a car waiting for you outside, if you will please come with me.”

There was a driver too, of course, so the young man got into the back next to Riario, and spent the silent drive occasionally running his finger inside the collar of his oxford shirt. Riario recognized the gesture, and could see the edges of bloody scratches on the boy’s neck.

Jacob noticed Riario’s gaze, and realized what he was doing, guiltily dropped his hands into his lap. “I, um, I cut myself shaving this morning.” Riario merely nodded, but he recognized the fear in the wide, blue eyes. Riario had his own set of similar cuts; the scars were nearly invisible now, or hidden by his beard.

The rest of the ride was silent, but it didn’t take long to reach the destination; an overstuffed alumni club that was not substantially different from any of the other similar clubs where Riario had been summoned in cities around the world. Alessandro was already sitting at a table, a whole lobster already in front of him. Riario slipped into the chair opposite. Alessandro waved away the waiter; Riario recognized this arrangement. It was just as well, he could never eat in front of his father anyway.

“How did you like my young man?” Alessandro turned the lobster over and began deftly twisting the legs and lining them up on the side of the platter. “He’s been quite a satisfactory protégé, but I think he is outgrowing the position. I’ll be looking for someone new for the position before long. I wonder if you might have any recommendations?” Alessandro paused for a moment, looking across the table with a malicious slyness. “Perhaps a blond this time, I think. I do like variety. Do you happen to know any, oh—bright young men? A political science student would be very appropriate. I have my eye on one; I wonder if we might have the same idea?”

He meant Nico, of course. Riario felt his stomach drop.

Imperturbability was the only response. “I had no idea you were looking for someone, Father. I can’t say that any names come to mind.” There was nothing on his side of the table to use as a distraction, nothing to occupy his hands, so he sat with them clasped loosely in his lap, and looked across at his father. Blandness, blandness was the only possible route to leaving the table without making things worse than they already were. “I would be happy to post a notice, if you would like.”

“Ah, no need, my boy. I think I might approach this particular candidate personally. Privately, you understand.”

Riario clenched his hands under the table until his knuckles turned white, but he kept his face perfectly blank. “You know best what you are looking for; I am sure that will be most efficient.”

Alessandro gave him another of those sly, sideways looks. “This one is younger than I usually hire, but I have it on good authority the boy has already been debauched, so there will be less of a breaking-in period. Which I prefer, of course. Makes the employment relationship so much more. . .effective.”

And there it was. The thing Riario had been edging around, afraid of finding out, afraid of asking about in case it was true: that Nico was underage, and that he was being exploited by his roommate. That Zoroaster was a pederast and it was all happening in front of him and he hadn’t done anything about it. And now his vile father was going to destroy another innocent victim. The wide eyes of the boy in the sauna back in DC, the same look as Jacob Salt had in the car just this afternoon—that same look would become fixed on Nico’s face.

He felt his own face assume that same expression, an expression he had hoped to have left behind many years ago. Apparently the muscle memory ran deep, and he lowered his head in the vain hope that Alessandro had not noticed it.

Of course he had noticed it; he had been watching for it. He had set up the whole meeting in order to test if he could still make Riario feel that same panic, to feel like the small boy he had been all those years ago. Because that meant he was still a tool that Alessandro could command at will. He needed to get free of this man and his snares, but he could not save himself if Nico was going to have to pay the cost.

His brain began whirring, sifting through possible stratagems. First he had to leave this meeting without giving Alessandro reason to suspect he was anything less than the well-trained and biddable weapon his father demanded. So he schooled his expression as best he could, while letting Alessandro see the effort that it took. It would not hurt for Alessandro to think things had not changed at all.

“Was there anything else, father, that brought you to Boston at this time?”

Alessandro admired the gleaming nutcracker, before cracking open the claws and pushing out chunks of pale meat. He paused to spear a particularly large bit onto the elegant two-tined fork, dipped it in the drawn butter, and then placed it in his mouth. Riario looked away from the expression of gross sensual pleasure on his father’s face.

“Actually, I have been having a profitable series of conversations with the chancellor of your university. We discussed the possibility of DRV funding some new positions, endowing some chairs, creating some significant grants for the study of the more interesting developments in the Middle East. The rise of militant Islam offers some new opportunities for investment.” He picked up the lobster, and with a savage twist of his wrists, he ripped the tail from the body. “I also suggested that I was looking for some talented potential job recruits. I was looking for unusual students; iconoclasts who were perhaps not well suited to academic conventions and might be better deployed in the kind of ‘outside the box’ research DRV has always encouraged.”

With a show of fussy fastidiousness, Alessandro cleaned his fingers and reached into his inside jacket pocket to pull out a letter. “He was kind enough to give me a list of candidates. Go ahead, read it.”

With a growing realization of just how far his father had taken this, Riario unfolded the letter, and skipped down to the short list of names to the one he had known would be there—Leo da Vinci.

He had anticipated this as soon as he had recognized Jacob Salt as one of his father’s victims. More accurately, he had known this was coming all his life: that any attempt he made to escape his father’s control was going to result in threats to anyone who meant anything to him. It was why he had lived such an ascetic life—he could not ethically subject anyone else to the kind of psychological damage his father was capable of inflicting. He’d been remarkably successful too, until Leo da Vinci had happened to him.

He was going to have to do something. The list of people he had to save was growing: Nico, Leo, himself. Possibly even that poor Jacob Salt, who was doubtless huddled over the toilets in the back of the club, vomiting up his own fear.

He folded the paper back into thirds, and he was quite proud of the way his fingers did not visibly tremble. “I don’t have any information I can give you on any of these names, I am afraid.” That was at least technically not a lie. “If that is what you are seeking from me, I must disappoint you.”

Alessandro took the paper and it disappeared back inside his jacket. “Oh, you have already disappointed me, my boy. I had expected to have these names from you months ago, and the bearers already in my employ by now. It should have not required that I personally push the chancellor into revoking stipends in order to push these students into accepting my telephone calls.” With a brutal delicacy, he ripped off the small fins off and inserted a well-groomed finger to push the tail meat out. The pale flesh extruded at the end of Alessandro’s waggling finger, and Riario felt his stomach rebel. “Only one of those names has not yet accepted employment in one of our companies. That should be corrected by the end of the month.”

Riario had to look away as Alessandro wrapped the nutcracker around the body of the lobster and smiled. “No, my boy, I called you here to offer my congratulations. Imola College! Rather on the smaller side, wouldn’t you agree? Nestled in the featureless prairies of the rural Midwest, surrounded by the bustle of cow and corn I expect. It should be quite the intellectual challenge for you.”

Of course Riario was not surprised by his father’s knowledge. To be honest, he had expected this. He hadn’t been the least secretive and had gone so far as to begin shipping crates of books to his new office. It was impossible that Alessandro had not been aware of the situation. So Riario had prepared. It was with unfeigned calmness that he answered, “Yes, father. They have agreed to take me on as early as June. As my obligations here will be complete, I will be in Imola beginning this summer.”

Alessandro disemboweled the lobster, pulling out the gills and circulation system, dangling the organs in the air between them. It was definitely a warning, but was there also irritation in his face? If not, Riario allowed himself the satisfaction of believing it, and considering it a small victory.

But Alessandro was an old hand at this game and he simply carried on his campaign of sarcastic congratulations. “Quite an appropriate choice, really, Riario. I’m not sure I could have located a more obscure exile if I had tried. How fortunate they had need of your exact mix of talents.” The lobster lay broken on the plate, no longer recognizable as the animal it had been. Alessandro tossed the empty shell fragments into a pile in a silver waste bowl.

Riario gave a small, rueful smile. “It will give me an opportunity to use my Italian at any rate; I haven’t had much call for it recently and I fear it has become a bit rusty.” He looked across the table and met his father’s implacable stare. “There hasn’t been much call for it professionally, as you know.” Gracefully, he stood up. “In any event, I have a number of things yet to accomplish. I am pleased to see you looking well, father. No, don’t call for Jacob, I will find my own way home.”

The maître d’ was happy to call for a cab; as he waited for it to arrive, Jacob Salt appeared looking pale and worn. Riario offered a comment. “For what it is worth, it’s almost over. He’s already looking for the next one.” Jacob looked up, his expression unreadable. It was hard to know if the information was good news or bad.

At least there was a text from Leo waiting for him, “Come over.”

 

 


	17. Here's the Pride Before the Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Should Leo enter the lion's den and go work for Alessandro's companies? The argument comes to a head, and then boils over. There is collateral damage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is a late late posting. I don't have an excuse other than that it is really hard to keep a three way argument going without everybody ending up on the wrong side of the issue. Keeping track of shifting alliances is way hard, guys! No wonder Italian history is so confusing.
> 
> I do have some bandaids for any broken hearts. I kind of hope there are some? I mean, I'm sorry, but if it did it right, this is going to hurt. . .

Nico was at the library, studying for a final exam, when Riario’s sleek black car pulled up the driveway. Afterwards, Vanessa wondered if things might have gone differently if he had been there, if the disaster might have been averted. If she had known, could she have refused to open the door and not let Riario in? Would things have been different if she hadn’t left the three of them alone?

As it was, Leo and Zo were once again arguing about the interview with Mercuri. Somehow, it hadn’t happened yet, which meant that they continued to try to change each other’s mind. Vanessa long ago refused to take sides, and had refused to pay any attention to when the damned interview was scheduled. She was tired of hearing about it. She had made her position clear—Leo was free to make his own mistakes. She wasn’t willing to get dragged into any further discussion.

“Vanessa!” Zo was sprawled sideways across the armchair; the man never sat in it properly and the padding on the arms was showing odd wear patterns from the way he dangled his legs over the side. “Come here and tell Leo he’s wrong.”

“Just because Vanessa tells me I’m wrong, doesn’t mean that I am, Zo. Reality exists independently of the language used to describe it.” Leo was irritable, perched on the edge of the sofa, tapping a pen against any surface he could reach, including his own teeth. Periodically he looked at his phone, frustrated by the absence of notifications. He’d texted Riario nearly an hour ago, shouldn’t he be here by now?

“Vanessa is not getting involved in this!” Vanessa glared at both of them. “Honestly you two, you are sound like an old married couple bickering over the right way to load a dishwasher. Literally. It feels like you’ve been having this same argument for fifty years.”

Just then, headlights swept the living room; Riario was pulling up the driveway and Vanessa went to let him in. “Your boyfriend has arrived, Leo. Perhaps he can cast the deciding vote.”

“And no taking him back into your room first to change his vote, Leo.” Zo was putting on a decent show of being grumpy, but he enjoyed trying to embarrass Leo too much to be truly unhappy. “That would be unfair interference and tampering with a witness as well as sexual coercion. Probably.”

Vanessa gave Zo’s curls a rub as she went to the door.

“Riario!” Leo called out happily, suddenly calmer. He flung himself back onto the cushions in a simulacrum of indolence. “Come here and tell this fucking mother hen that he is ridiculous and there is no reason to worry!”

“Leo, going to meet with Mercuri is such a obviously terrible idea that even a demon incarnate like Riario agrees with me.” Zo stretched his legs, a tipped his head backwards over the opposite arm. The chair gave an ominous creak. “You told me so yourself, and that does not actually make me feel better about this whole thing, you pandering knob jockey.”

Vanessa whispered to Riario as she closed the door behind him. “Please put them out of their misery. They’ve been beating this dead horse for hours.” Then, trusting that Riario would be able end the bickering, possibly by taking Leo somewhere else and probably ravishing him, Vanessa went back into the kitchen to finish mixing cookie batter.

Riario had driven over immediately after leaving his father’s presence, and he was freshly appalled. “Leo. You are not still entertaining the idea of interviewing with Mercuri. That is incomprehensibly foolish. And dangerous. You don’t have any idea how dangerous it is.”

Leo stuck out his lower lip, and drew down his brows over his eyes. He was stubborn and he hated being told not to do something. Zo spotted the warning signs of what could escalate to a tantrum. “Don’t patronize me, Riario. I’m a big boy and I can handle myself. I am exploring my employment opportunities.”

With his head still hanging upside down over the arm of his chair, Zo heaved an exasperated sigh. “And there it is, Leo’s inner child, making decisions again.”

Without even lifting his arm off the back of the sofa, Leo flashed a raised middle finger toward Zo.  Zo righted himself and glared back. “That’s the kind of mature rebuttal I’ve come to expect from you. Are you going to follow that up with ‘You’re not my mom?’ Because that’s the level of discourse you have sunk to.”

Riario took a step closer to Leo, but remained standing. “Please listen, _artista_ , this is more dangerous than you know.”

Zo’s eyes went wide. “ _Artista_? Well _that’s_ a bit of pillow talk I could have gone my entire life without having heard.”

Leo didn’t even bother turning his head to toss his “Fuck you, Zo” over to his friend. He remained locked in eye contact with Riario, his expression becoming more stormy. “Why don’t you believe I can handle this? You don’t know what I’m facing, you don’t even know why I want to do this. You just think you know better than everybody else, but you haven’t even asked about it. You haven’t listened to me. You are just being high handed like you were about that whole Lulu thing.. You don’t know more than I do—especially about me.”

The words poured out of his mouth, huffy and irritated, not the thoughtful, logical arguments that Zo was used to hearing from Leo. It wasn’t _quite_ a tantrum, but it was definitely heavily loaded with emotion. And damn if the prick didn’t just get _icier_.

“It is not a matter of what you can handle, Leo. You have no idea of the scope of the game you are proposing to play, nor the other pieces that are jeopardized.” Riario remained standing, his posture perfect, his eyes hooded and his face closed. There was no hint of affection, no warmth at all. It was precisely the attitude that Leo would absolutely hate, would rebel against the hardest. It was every inch the way his father had been; Zo recognized it, and braced himself for the outburst.

“Oh, I have _no idea_ , but you do?” Leo’s voice was still pitched low, it wasn’t loud enough that Vanessa could hear it from where she was banging around in the kitchen, but it had force behind it. “ _You_ have no idea of what I am up against and why this is important to me. You live inside your bubble of wealth, and you have _no idea_ what my life is like and what I’m going through, so you can stop acting superior and stop treating me like some unruly child.”

Well, to be fair, he certainly looked like an unruly child, Zo thought. His hair was sticking up in all directions, he had his arms crossed over his chest, and such an expression of stubborn obstreperousness that it was nearly comical. Zo considered trying to intervene—he knew a thing or two about how to handle Leo when he got worked up like this, and he could probably even talk him down, if Riario wasn’t here.

But maybe, just maybe, it might be fun to watch the fireworks go off.

Leo was certainly looking like he might explode; Zo could recall days when Leo used to get so frustrated he would sweep his worktable clear, knocking everything to the floor before stomping off and smoking something to calm his agitation. This felt similar—the build up of frustration that would be expressed physically. Zo had learned how to distract him at this critical moment, how to disarm him with a joke, a self-deprecating quip, a comment about his own sexual misadventures. He guessed that Riario probably wasn’t going to volunteer that sort of thing.

Oddly, Riario didn’t seem to be at all worried about the ominious rumblings of Volcano Leo. Perhaps he’d never actually seen the eruptions before. In any event, he simply pressed on. “In fact, _artista_ , I know more than you realize. I was summoned to my father today, and informed that he intends to pressure you into working for him. I believe you may have received a notice that your funding has been suspended?”

Leo managed to look surprised while remaining supremely angry. “I didn’t tell you about that.”

“No, my father did. He intends to have you at his beck and call, Leo. He has intervened heavily in the university’s financial system in order to get his way.”

Leo scoffed. “You flatter me.”

“I do not.”

This time, it was Zo who challenged the statement. “As much as I believe that Leo is a genius, even I find that hard to believe.” He glanced over at his friend. “No offence, mate.”

Riario simply stared for an uncomfortable few seconds. The silence drew out, and Zo began to feel awkward, as though he had to defend his statement. “Oh, come off it. You really want us to believe that the head of a multi-billion dollar defense contractor would get in touch with Leo’s advisor just to get him to go to a job interview?”

Riario didn’t even blink, just continued to stare, chin dropped to his chest, arms folded. His posture radiated absolute certainty. Finally, he spoke, with a strange quietness that Leo might have been used to, but Zo was not.

“My father has many schemes that are in motion at all times. Leo is currently a small matter. I guarantee it took almost no effort for him to cause this disruption.” Riario looked at Leo, who was beginning to look interested and thus less thunderous. “You may believe that your problems lie with your advisor, or even your department. I assure you, my father’s plans go far, far above that level.”

There was a hint of excitement in Leo’s voice when he asked, “So you’re saying that I’m a pawn in his chess game?”

“Far from it.” Riario looked sad, like he regretted having to deliver bad news. “You are much too insignificant to be even a pawn. My father plays with countries and governments as his pieces. Though he seems to think you might be important enough to be a pawn. Someday.”

“So what are you doing to stop him?” Even Zo was surprised to hear himself challenging Riario, but he had always thought that this prick didn’t properly appreciate Leo’s genius. This was another example of that, and it pissed him off. “Anything? I didn’t think so—because you are a coward! At least Leo is willing to put himself in a position to stop this.”

Riario trained his basilisk stare at Zo, and when he spoke, his voice was dangerously cold. “You have literally no idea of the things I have done--terrible things, dangerous things--or what horrors I have seen and perpetrated on my father’s orders. You have no idea what I have managed to prevent him from doing, and what that has cost me.”

Unconsciously, his hand went up to the thin scar beneath his left eye. There were many other scars; even Leo had not seen them all.

“Well you’ve been bloody useless, then, haven’t you? He’s still ruining people’s lives. Maybe Leo is the one to take him down, then.”

Leo actually looked startled. He turned his head and looked--really _looked_ at his friend. “So now you think I _should_ go to this interview?” He was legitimately surprised, and a little bit delighted, at the good opinion Zo had of his talents. He may even have preened.

Zo looked appalled at what had apparently come out of his own mouth. “Fuck no, Leo, but I don’t like this asshole underestimating you.”

“Oh, it is only your prerogative to do so?” Riario’s voice was silky and dangerous.

Leo wasn’t listening any longer, he was calculating scales and ratios. “If I’m too small to be a pawn, and a government is on the board, then it would have to be at least a rook, right? Unless it was the government of a small country, or maybe a coalition government where the components are divided ideologically. . . .” His fingers started waving in the air as he performed some arcane mental calculation.

For just a second—a very long second—Riario and Zo looked at each other in a shared exasperation at Leo’s inability to focus on the real issue. For that moment, the possibility shimmered between them; they might possibly put aside their deep animosity in order to save the man they both cared about. They could possibly find common cause in loving Leo, and trying to save him from himself.

“What would I have to do, to get on the board as like, a knight?” Leo’s excited voice fractured the web between the two of them, and their mutual dislike roared back. “Because I bet a lot of what he does requires classified information, and I bet I could write an algorithm. . . .”

“Fuck you, Riario.” Zo pitched his voice underneath Leo’s enthusiastic babble. “You just gave him a problem to think about, and he will never leave a puzzle unsolved. He won’t just go to this interview, not now. No, thanks to you, now he’s going to join this fucking death squad you father leads, because he can’t resist the challenge. And you’re the one who showed him that challenge, and he’s going to think you fucking gave him permission to do it.”

Riario stood like a statue, his large eyes turned to watch as Leo murmured to himself, and he considered the situation. “If you think it is a mistake for Leo to work at DRV, pperhaps that is reaons enough to consider it might be a good idea for him to go.” Riario’s tone was punctiliously mild, his words were absolutely unfailing polite. “I think, _artista_ , that perhaps your talents would be given the opportunity to grow if you were to work for DRV. Certainly they would receive more cultivation than you have experienced from Harvard.”

Zo could not believe what he was hearing. “Fuck you, you prick.” Not the most elegant riposte, but it had the advantage of being unambiguous. “You want to know something? I don’t want him to go, because it is related to _you._ He should stay as far away from you, and anything even obliquely related to you, as possible.”

“And I believe,” Riario drawled, looking with hooded eyes at Zo, “Leo should not make his decision based on the recommendation of a pederast.”

There was a stunned silence as Zo replayed the comment in his head. “WHAT did you just call me?”

“I believe that you heard me.” Riario was entirely calm; he didn’t even blink as Zo leapt out of the chair and roared up into his face. “Or perhaps the better term would be---“

“Don’t you say it. Don’t you say a _word_ to me!” Zo was furious, so angry that bits of spittle flew from his lips. Riario did not even flinch as they hit his face.

Leo was jolted out of his problem-solving reverie, enough to hear Riario’s comment and to see Zo’s reaction, and in an instant he became hyper aware of the moment. he saw Zo shift in the chair, his legs swinging underneath him, the tautness of his thighs and the way he used his arms to lever himself upright so he could rush across the room and get right into Riario’s face. He saw the slight shift of Riario’s feet—not to evade Zo’s rush, but to re-center his gravity, to brace in place to withstand whatever Zo did to him. He was planting himself, facing whatever unpleasantness –whatever violence—he was provoking.

This had happened before, this hyper-specific visualization. Once, he had startled a flock of birds, which had burst out of the bushes and flown towards him. He had been able to see the specific pattern of their wings, how the muscles of their mighty pectorals had moved, the articulation of the joints of the wings as they beat to lift their tiny bodies into the air, how the feathers had shifted like rudders to change the direction of the flight.

It was happening here, as time seemed to slow down, sound failed to reach him. Weirdly, it was like being plunged underwater, all movement exaggerated and slow, the muffling of sound as though his ears were filled with water. Even as it denied him some of his senses, it made him aware of every visual detail. He could see that Riario was physically exhausted, his skin even more pale than usual, and his eyes rimmed with red. Not tears, but exhaustion. Even the way he stood showed weariness; Leo could see the slight tremors in his legs, the way his arms hung limp at his sides. The man was practically dead on his feet, and yet he refused to acknowledge it.

His face—that face—the one that Leo had gazed at and drawn so many times, for so many hours—it was foreign now. There was a haughtiness, a pride and anger that he’d never seen before. It wasn’t just exhaustion, not just physical anyway. There was a bone deep fury, an emotional breaking point that Riario was rapidly approaching. It was as though he was on the precipice of a mental breakdown, and only his pride and anger were keeping him upright. He was standing on the edge of the carpet that marked the living room, just barely inside the house as if he did not dare to cross further into the space. Not that he was poised to flee, but as though he had come to conduct a distasteful task and did not presume that he would be welcome once he had discharged it.

In this slowed state, there was nothing Leo could do but watch helplessly as events unfurled. 

*****

It was the sound of Zo’s raised voice that alerted Vanessa that something was wrong. She made it into the living room in time to see Zo spitting at Riario, as furious as she had ever seen him, livid with fury and rage.

“You have no business asking me that question. Who I fuck is none of your concern and I am not talking about it with you.”

Riario, typically, became colder, more remote. “I do not care who you fuck. You are an adult and presumably prepared to live with your own decisions. However, I do care about whether _that child_ is getting fucked, because I can not condone the sexual abuse of an innocent.”

Vanessa would not have believed Zo could get any angrier than he had been, but his fury was so great at this accusation, that he was nearly inarticulate. “You damned arrogant, sanctimonious, interfering _asshole_. How dare you. How _dare_ you!”

At least Nico was away, and he wasn’t here to witness this. On the other hand, if he _had_ been around, he might have ended what was shaping up into an epic battle.

Zo couldn’t sit still, he was on his feet, storming around the living room, inscribing parabolas as he failed to find a comfortable distance from which to confront Riario. He would move in as if to punch the arrogant bastard, but that was too close, his face was too infuriating, so Zo would whirl away, cross the length of the room, turn to hurl his invective. Yet that was too far away, and once again he moved within arm’s length of the man he now considered a mortal enemy.

Riario simply stood, still as stone, cold as marble, beautiful as sculpture. He could outlast the fury, he had the patience to wait until his adversary had burned himself out, but his inquisition would continue. He would have his answers, now or later; he could afford to wait.

Leo had somehow emerged from his fugue state, and was involving himself now, as if this conflict were a problem that admitted of a solution. Riario doubted any win condition existed, frankly. Zo was too emotional, and he himself was prepared to be implacable. There was no way to thread this needle, yet Leo was going to try. In his shoes, Riario wouldn’t have attempted it. It spoke of an optimistic view of human relationships that he did not have. Perhaps he never had. Perhaps it had been beaten out of him.

“Look, Zo, this isn’t personal. He’s said as much. So, just tell him that you aren’t sleeping with Nico, and he’ll believe you and that will end it.” Leo was an engineer, with an engineer’s faith in the existence of solutions, of final answers that could be found. Zo knew better than that.

“No, Leo, it won’t fucking end it, because that bastard won’t believe anything I say about it. I can tell him ‘no, I’m not fucking Nico’ and he will just nod and keep suspecting me. He’ll try to catch me out in the lie that he’s convinced I’m telling, so no, that won’t solve anything.”

Zo stalked away, indignation apparent from his rigid posture, his tensed jaw, his clenched hands. “I can’t deny it and be believed, because that’s just how these things work, isn’t it Riario? The ‘no smoke without fire’ rule—It must be true, or there wouldn’t be any reason to accuse me.”

Vanessa was horrified, frozen in place. She couldn’t quite understand what was happening in front of her. These things didn’t happen in your own living room, with people you lived with and loved. Someone should do something, should put a stop to this, but she couldn’t think what to say, what to do. She could only watch as Zo circled the room, flinging words like weapons.

“If I said what you want me to say, ‘yes, Riario, I am taking advantage of a boy just barely above the age of legal consent, and I’m fucking him every day of the week and twice on Sundays’ you _would_ believe it. It wouldn’t occur to you that I might be lying if I _admitted_ it.”

Zo was at the far end of the room now, as far as he could get from Riario’s still form. “Because I might, you know. I might just admit it because it makes _no fucking difference_ what I say. So I might decide it’s not worth trying to prove anything to a moralistic asshole who wouldn’t believe me anyway. I might decide it wasn’t worth the effort, so just to get you off my tits I’d say “you’ve found me out.” Because none of this is your fucking business, Riario. There is no reason for you to stick that long nose of yours into this at all.”

Through the fog of her shock, Vanessa could see the exquisite impossibility of the situation. There wasn’t any proof, one way or another, not without Nico there.

Zo was back in motion, drawn perhaps by the gravitational pull of Riario’s disapproval. “And that _still_ wouldn’t end this, because you would insist that I would have to stop, for Nico’s sake. And then you would still be watching to make sure I had stopped, and you would still be in my face just as much as if I had denied it.”

Now Zo was flexing his arm, hand balled into a loose fist, as if he was going to take a swing at his accuser. But he stopped himself, out of arm’s reach, still pouring his outrage in words.

“What if I said, ‘yes, I am fucking Nico, and it’s consensual’? That wouldn’t convince you either, would it, you righteous bastard? Because you don’t think Nico is capable of giving real consent, do you? To you, I might as well say ‘he came onto me’ or ‘he wanted it’—it still makes me look evil. And I’d _still_ be under your surveillance because anything I say will just confirm your belief that I’m that kind of predator.”

Zo looked straight at Leo, misery in every line of his drawn face. Vanessa thought she could see tears in his eyes. “There’s no way to beat this, Leo. You can’t even ask Nico, because if you do and he says ‘no, we aren’t sleeping together’ then your bastard boyfriend will just assume that I got to him first and told him what to say. Or that I had groomed him to deny it. And if you ask him and he says ‘yes, we are sleeping together’ then I’ve overridden his will and made him _think_ that he consented. There’s a power differential, you see? He’s so young, that he can’t possibly know what he really wants, and so Riario gets me every way. Every. Fucking. Way.”

Vanessa was still frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, her hand at her mouth, her eyes as big as saucers as she watched the scene devolve. As far as she could tell, Zo hadn’t even noticed her at all.

Zo made the turn back toward Riario across the cheap carpet. Surely there would be a wear pattern before the end of this fight. “I know what you are, Girolamo Riario. I know how you work. You don’t believe anything but what you have decided to believe. And you have decided that I’m a fucking sexual predator. Well I can live with that, because I think you are a fucking sociopath, so I don’t care what you think about me.” They were close now, their faces mere inches apart.

“The only reason I care, you prick, is because you are going to poison Leo. You are going to make him question me as well. That’s what you do: using hints and innuendoes to make my best friend in the world wonder if I’m telling the truth. First you’ll make him wonder if I am lying to cover up my depravity—then he’ll wonder if I am so depraved that I have to lie to him. And then he will start watching me as well, alert to any indication that maybe I am fucking Nico, because if I lied about that, what else am I lying about? Christ!”

Zo threw his head back and hit his forehead with half-clenched fists, before sinking to his haunches in despair. “This is the fucking, twisted brilliance of your boyfriend, Leo. He’s made this impossible. It’s him or me. You either have to believe him, and I’m a fucking outcast, or you have to believe me, and dump him. You are going to have to chose between us, Leo, and don’t think I don’t know he will win.”

Leo opened his mouth, but there wasn’t anything to say. His mind ran first to possible technical solutions: web cams in the bedroom, for example, but that would the same as believing the accusation. It was horrible and intrusive, and it wouldn’t prove anything. Web cams might not record anything, but that wouldn’t prove it didn’t happen. That only proved that it didn’t happen where the cameras could record it.

Zo watched Leo’s face, saw how his mind was working, and he collapsed. Vanessa saw him get smaller, his shoulders slumped as the fight went out of him. She understood—it was already too late. The seed of doubt had been planted.

Zo dropped his head, still crouching on the floor, audibly swallowing and looking small and defeated. Finally, he stood up with a sigh.

“I don’t have any choices. There is no way to prove I’m innocent. That’s the brilliance of it—the mere accusation is enough to destroy your belief in me.” He walked slowly toward his bedroom. “I’ll pack up some things and be out of here before Nico comes home. I’ll come back for the rest when I have a new place.” He opened the door, stepped into the room, but stopped for a last request.

“Tell Nico what happened here, okay? Tell him I didn’t give that bastard any answers. Tell him I’m sorry.” He stepped through and shut the door with a soft click that echoed through the silent house.

Vanessa let out a squeak of surprise and horror, her hand dropped from her mouth, but she was still paralyzed. Her gaze darted back and forth between Leo and Riario, as she desperately tried to process what she had just witnessed.

Riario had not moved in the slightest. He still stood motionless on the edge of the room, his features carved like marble. _This was necessary. This was important. The damage to Nico if I am right is greater than the damage to Zo if I am wrong._ He has seen the eyes of young boys, boys in over their heads with powerful men who were taking advantage, abusing them. When they understood, belatedly, what was happening to them. Riario couldn’t stand to look into another pair of those eyes; could not stand to watch another lovely young boy turn into what he has become. 

*****

When Nico returned, Vanessa gave Leo a cold look and left the house. Leo would like to have called her a coward, but it wasn’t _her_ boyfriend who caused the disaster. No, that was all his doing: his boyfriend, his disaster.

He knew it was his job to clean up this mess, but he didn’t know what to say. Leo wasn’t even sure if he wanted to tell Nico the truth, or try to give him some lie. It was an instinct to protect Nico from the accusations, from the disapprobation. To be honest, he just couldn’t imagine looking at Nico’s open and trusting face and saying “My boyfriend accused Zo of being a pedophile, and Zo ran away.”

Was that even the truth? What had Riario actually said? Leo re-ran the conversation in his head, but while his visual memory was eidetic, his aural recollection was not. He understood the meaning of Riario’s statements, but not the specific language. The implication was unmistakable, and in the aftermath, when their cozy family unit had blown up, he could only understand the result, but not how they had gotten there.

It might not even be true to say that Zo had run away, because that implied that he left because he was guilty. It was more accurate to say that Zo left because Riario had planted the serpent in Eden. The easy acceptance they had of each other had been poisoned, leaving only doubt, concern, questions that could not be answered. In only a few sentences, in less time than Leo could have imagined, Riario had destroyed the bonds that tied them to Zo.

When Zo had left the house, carrying his clothing in garbage bags, Vanessa had turned her round blue eyes and whispered “How could you?” Leo wasn’t sure who she was talking to, but he supposed they both deserved it: Riario, for actually causing the situation, and him for bringing Riario into their lives.

Riario left while Zo was packing. Vanessa insisted, and made him leave. “I am sorry, but you can’t be here. You are not welcome—not as long as I live here. You have driven away my friend, who has more right to be here than you do.” Tears stood in her bright blue eyes. “You have hurt us, all of us, deeply. Please go now.”

He nodded and apologized, after a fashion. “I am so sorry that this had to happen this way.” He simply looked at Leo; the black bangs fallen over his eyes did not obscure the look of intense longing. He swallowed, ducked his head, and turned away. Blood rushed in Leo’s ears as the black car purred away.

That had all happened this afternoon. Now, hours later, Nico was due to come home and Leo had no idea what he was going to say. When Nico’s key clinked in the lock, Leo had arranged himself in the living room, reading a book as if nothing unusual had happened at all. He had no idea what book it was; the pages might as well have been blank.

He hadn’t counted on Nico pottering around the house. He’d imagined that Nico would go straight to his room, notice the missing clothing, then come out and ask about it. That would have been easier—that way he wouldn’t have to introduce the terrible topic.

Instead, Nico dropped his coat and bag into the closet, and went into the kitchen. Leo heard the refrigerator door open and close, heard Nico pour something into a mug and then reheat it in the microwave. The silverware drawer rattled open, and dishes clanked. Leo had no idea what meal Nico was assembling; he’d never actually noticed whether or not Nico had a routine. In fact, Leo realized, he didn’t know much about Nico at all.

That was what the serpent brought to Eden again, wasn’t it? The seed of doubt and mistrust that Riario had planted, germinating anew. Leo had to acknowledge that Riario was right: Nico _was_ young. Very young; he’d entered Harvard early as a prodigy. Leo didn’t know exactly how old he was, only that he was still too young to drink legally.

Not that anybody in the house had considered that to be an issue.

As far as Leo could recall, no one had ever questioned Nico’s ability to make choices for himself. Riario’s bombshell changed that, because now Leo was wondering if he did have some moral responsibility to be sure that Nico wasn’t being exploited.

And _that_ felt like believing Riario’s accusation.

At that point, Nico came in with a plate of what something—maybe barbecued beef on tortilla chips—and a mug of coffee. He dropped onto the sofa and put his feet up on the coffee table. He reached for the remote, but looked at Leo first. “Do you mind if I watch?” Leo just shook his head, and returned to his book. Nico settled on a _Mythbusters_ marathon, but kept the sound muted. Leo was touched by Nico’s consideration, something else he hadn’t really noticed before.

Covertly, Leo studied his housemate. Had he really been blind to Nico all this time? What did he feel for his friend anyway? Did he really consider Nico a friend, or did he treat him as a sort of house mascot, like a puppy who happened to come with the house? Did he have an obligation—to Nico, to himself—to confirm that whatever relationship Nico and Zo had, it was consensual?

Well, he had to do this, so he might as well start. Start somewhere and see what happened.

“Um, Nico? I need to tell you something.”

Nico looked over—he had a chip halfway into his mouth, and some of the seasoning had stained the corner of his lips, leaving an orange smear. He looked so young, and Leo had no idea how to steer this conversation to any sort of good outcome. What would a good outcome even be?

“Something happened here today. And it affects you—well, it affects all of us, but for now. . .Zo moved out.”

“What?” The boy looked legitimately confused. “Why would Zo just move out?“ He stood up, walked over to the bedroom he shared, looked inside. From where Leo sat, the room didn’t look much different; Zo hadn’t taken anything but some clothing.

Nico turned around, confusion all over his face.

Leo rubbed his hands together, then tucked them into his armpits. He really did not want to be having this conversation. You know you should be having this conversation? Riario. It was Riario’s fault! Why was Leo having to clean up Riario’s mess?

Oh, right. Because Riario would just make it worse.

“If it makes a difference, he didn’t want to. He just—had to.”

Nico pulled out his phone, preparing to text. “Oh, jeez, I knew his finances were tight, but I didn’t realize they were that bad. He didn’t have to do that. I’ve got plenty of money, or I could ask my parents for more. I could have covered his rent, all he had to do was ask.” He started typing; Leo assumed it was an offer to help Zo.

And oh god, it was so tempting to take that opening. To let Nico think it was a financial decision that forced Zo out. To leave Riario’s accusations and insinuations out of it and maybe salve his own guilt about the whole thing. But of course that would never work, because Nico was honorable and forthright, and he would go find Zo and make the offer and then he’d find out that way. Zo would never forgive Leo for that.

“No, Nico, it wasn’t that. Look.” This was really impossible. There was no way to sit still, or to look Nico in his wide, questioning eyes. “I don’t know how to say this in any graceful way, so I’m just going to close my eyes and blurt it out. Riario was here, and he said—he thought—he said he thought Zo was sleeping with you and that it was abusive. And Zo got mad, and the two of them went at it, but the longer it went on, Zo realized he could never prove it. Or not prove it. Disprove it.” Leo scrubbed at his head with both hands, making his hair even wilder than usual.

Was he even getting through? Nico just sat there, unmoving, his phone seemingly forgotten in his hand. Leo envied him this obviously powerful coping mechanism. Leo wished he didn’t understand what had happened either.

Perhaps he had to break it down to the shortest, most brutal description. Which would be a kind of a lie, since Riario only did things elegantly, and it was like watching Zo be cut to ribbons with graceful swordsmanship. The way Leo was going to have to tell it would be more like being battered with a blunt instrument.

“Riario accused Zo of fucking you while you were underage. Zo couldn’t defend himself properly so he left.” Leo looked at Nico, with as much empathy shining from his eyes as he could manage. “I am sorry, Nico. I think we failed you.”

But Nico was on his feet, turning around to look into the kitchen, at the closed bedroom door, back at Leo, and again around to the kitchen. “Oh, _fuck_ no!” He looked bewildered, lost, and Leo again felt that pang of guilt like a knife in his guts. How badly had he failed Nico?

“Zo didn’t have to. . .oh my god, what did he say?” Nico’s face was open and pleading. “He couldn’t have. . .he just took it? Whatever Riario said, Zo just admitted it?”

Leo wasn’t sure what he had expected from Nico, but this wasn’t it. Whatever _this_ was.

“No, he didn’t admit it. He said it didn’t matter if he admitted it or not.” Leo reran the conversation in his head. “He said Riario believed it, so nothing he said would make a difference. I think.”

“Oh, jeez, no.” Nico turned around again, trying to take in the entire household at once. “Who else was here? Was Vanessa here? Julian? Where are they now?”

Leo felt entirely inadequate to handle the emotions Nico was exhibiting; computer science and engineering were no help to him at this moment. “Nico, calm down. Vanessa was here, but Julian wasn’t. Nobody else. Just me, Zo, Vanessa, and Riario. And nobody else is here now.”

That seemed to be some sort of relief; Nico collapsed onto the sofa, and fell against the back, his hands covering his face. “Why didn’t Zo. . .oh that idiot, he knew, _he knew_ and he didn’t—“

This was becoming bizarre, and Leo felt that he needed to understand what Nico was not saying. “Nico, talk to me, will you? What are you trying to say? Because I gotta admit I feel like you think you are making sense and you just are not.”

Nico pulled his hands away from his face with a sort of violence that Leo had never seen in the boy before. “It was never Zo, Leo. I’ve been in love with Vanessa this whole time. It was never Zo, and he didn’t save himself. He kept my secret.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go. Can this much damage be fixed? Maybe. Maybe not. Come tell me what you think in the comments! Anybody want to make bets on the outcome?


	18. I'll Never Catch Up With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These summaries are very hard to write without giving away plot details! I apologize for the terseness. 
> 
> After the blow-up, Leo is at loose ends, and forced to think about what comes next for him. He puts together some pieces, and makes a move.

The month of May passed in a blur for Leo. There was no regularity to his schedule, no one ever seemed to be around the house to remind him to eat, to sleep, to leave his room. Not that his housemates had taken on that role specifically—more that their general presence tended to prod him to notice things like food and rest.

But Vanessa was spending all her time at the Medfords now, her possessions inexorably migrating over to that house, leaving only vestigial reminders of her presence. Zo of course, stayed away. He had been very clear that he did not wish to spend any time in a place that Riario might be present. Nico had declared his allegiance to Zo, and also spent very little time at the house.

So Leo was alone, and the silence was oppressive. As soon as he could, he tracked Zo down to the new address. It was obviously temporary.

“Owned by a relative of a friend of mine. Well, I say ‘friend,’ but I’m not sure I know her last name. Anyway, there was a spare bedroom for rent. Maiden auntie comes with the room.” He waggled his eyebrows, smiled something close to his old smile. “She might not know that yet either.”

The knot in Leo’s chest loosened, and he grabbed Zo in a bear hug. “It is so good to see you! I have missed you, Zo.” He stood back from his oldest friend, at arms length, but still holding fast to his shoulders. “Come back, will you? Would you?”

Zo smiled, his dimples flashing briefly. “What, and forfeit all this elegance?” He gestured at the utterly generic furniture, the chintz fabric, the decorative pillows. “The curtains even match the bedspread. And you know I don’t usually care about that.”

Leo laughed, a genuine laugh, relieved of the weight he’d been carrying, without realizing how heavy it had been. “C’mon, Zo. Give it all up and come home.”

The smile faded, the artificial brightness replaced by a searching look, as Zo looked as closely as he ever had, allowing the silence to stretch between them. After long moments, the light went out of Zo’s eyes.

“No. No fucking way you are still with that prick! After what he just did to me? I mean, fine, you picked him over me. I don’t suck your dick these days, not like he does, so fine, I should expect that. But after what he just did to _Nico_?”

Leo was apologetic, vaguely. Not for choosing to keep his boyfriend—what did Zo expect anyway? Except it wasn’t a choice. “I’m not. . .we’re not. . .Riario’s disappeared again.”

At that, Zo threw his hands up in disgust. “Oh fucking hell, Leo. The only reason you aren’t with him is he doesn’t want to be with you? I knew I hated that bastard.” Again, Zo leveled his searching gaze at his friend. “You should be angry, Leo, angry and scared that he will turn on you next.”

Zo was right—why wasn’t he more upset? “It was just weird, the way he was. The way he did it. It wasn’t like him, Zo.”

“Fucking hell, Leo, it was _exactly_ like him. It was exactly like every fucking mass murderer in the history of the world. Everybody around him would say ‘Oh, he was such a quiet person, kept to himself mostly, we never had any trouble, he had no idea he would ever do such a thing’ and yet they always fucking do it. Riario fucking burned down the house and scattered the ashes, Leo. It took him about fifteen minutes, and he destroyed us, our family, everything we were to each other is now ashes and dust.”

Zo rolled his eyes.

“I’m. . .I’m sorry, Zo.” Funny how Leo managed to look even more devastated than Zo felt. It pissed him off.

“Fuck off, you. This isn’t about how bad you feel. Your boyfriend destroyed my home and tried to ruin me.” Zo sat on the edge of the chintz covered bed and began systematically shredding a piece of paper just to keep his hands busy, letting the pieces fall to the ground between his feet. The sad pile grew lopsidedly, and both of them watched the accumulation, something to look at besides each other.

Zo hadn’t even raised his voice. Leo felt that was more painful—the old Zo, the happily profane puppy of the days Before Riario, would have ranted and postured and gesticulated, swearing in baroque arabesques of profanity. This one, this damaged man, spoke simply. These truths needed no embellishment.

All Leo could do was offer his apologies, and those were cold comfort at best; antagonizing, more likely. Still, he’d come all this way, he would at least try.

“Zo, I am sorry. I had no idea he was thinking that. I had no idea he was going to say that.”

The anger flooded Zo’s face. “You fuck _right off_ , Leo. I _told_ you who he was. I _warned_ you about him. You know who his father is, and you know the apple does not fall far from the tree.” The last of the scrap of paper was mangled in Zo’s hands, and he threw it away. The gesture did not relieve his feelings.

“You need to be careful, Leo, because your _boyfriend_ ,” Zo managed to spit that last word, “is capable of turning against people with no warning. Once his hellspawn of a father finds out he’s fucking you, all that institutional homophobia is going be pointed your way. And you have no fucking idea what is going to hit you then.”

“I know you are worried, Zo but I don’t know. I can’t explain it yet. There is something that I am missing, something that was just off about that whole thing. I have to think about it—it’s important, I can tell.”

Zo fell back on the bed, disgusted, impatient, and worried, all in equal measure. If Leo thought there was a puzzle, some mystery to Riario’s behavior, he would chase after the solution and fail to take the most basic steps for self-protection. He was especially vulnerable to the damage Riario could do, because he would never protect himself.

He sighed—it was exhausting, to be Leo’s friend. “For god’s sake, Leo, spare me your mooning about your boyfriend. Change the subject—anything would have to be better.”

Desperately, Leo cast around for something—anything—to say. He chose. . .poorly.

“So, has Nico been around yet?”

Zo rolled over onto his side, his back pointedly toward Leo. “Close the door on your way out, Leo. “ 

*****

In the empty house, Leo rattled around with no purpose. He had projects, but since he had been all but evicted from his program, what was the point of pursuing them now? He was an artist without a patron, and he was at very loose ends.

It wouldn’t have been so terrible, if only Riario hadn’t disappeared as well. It was understandable—he’d lobbed an emotion grenade, and he was smart enough to realize he wouldn’t be welcomed back after that. Except everyone was gone now. There was only Leo, and would Leo welcome him back?

Part of him would, of course, the part that craved the physical sensations that Riario could elicit. He wasn’t proud of it, not in the least. It was equal to the worst of the cravings he’d had when he was still drugging, the thing that would send him out at strange hours, into dangerous areas with as much cash as he could scrape together when he needed his fix. He’s managed to wean his body off the drugs, but he had replaced them with regular doses of Riario. Strong doses of Riario.

He needed that contact from Riario, the way those long fingers bruised and stroked him, the violence of that honed body dominating him, the way those dark eyes pinned him. He needed the tangle of legs and arms, the heat of Riario’s skin, the way he felt himself melt and be molded by Riario’s intensity.

He needed sex, but not just any sex—he could probably go out and find some kind of end-of-term party where there would be all kinds of offers, from men and women. He’d sampled plenty in the past. But while the kind of boozy generosity that he’d received from those kinds of encounters certainly had its charms, he’d come to expect more. It was like going from the wine coolers and punch drinks of his undergraduate years to the more stringent pleasures of a peaty single malt scotch, and his palate was no longer tuned to the easier drinks.

He wanted Riario, and he was more than a little disgusted with himself. He had watched the slow motion horror that was Riario destroying his friend Zo, leveling what could have been a life destroying set of accusations. Taken to extremes, Zo could have been arrested. He might have been labeled a sex offender and forced to register as one, a label that would follow him his entire life. Even if he was not convicted, his reputation would be forever smeared by the accusation of pederasty

And even after that, Leo still craved Riario. What did that say about him as a human, as a friend, as a moral being? It said he was a sex addict with no honor, no principles, just a need for hard sex with a dangerous man. A man who nearly destroyed a friend’s life with just a few softly articulated words. Riario had never looked angry or surprised, or even upset. He was careful and precise, and he had destroyed Zo in front of Leo without turning a hair.

It was infuriating, because Leo hated himself for still being hooked, for still wanting more than anything to find that elegant black raven of a man and climb his body until he was spread against him and kissing him stupid. He wanted Riario to lay those elegant fingers against his face and neck, to dig into his thighs and his ass, to leave long bruises, to spread him against a bed and pin him physically, to silence the roar of ideas by forcing him to spend all his attention on what his body was experiencing.  He wanted Riario to spread him and pin him, to tease him to arousal, to deny him orgasm, to dominate him until he was boneless under that body that, god help him, he still craved.

Suddenly, it was all too much, pressing down on him, making him claustrophobic. He looked around the room at all the unfinished projects, all the bits and pieces of construction, all the detritus of his academic career—the career that lay in flames around him—and he needed to be rid of it. All of it. He needed it out of his sight and off his conscience. With a growl, he grabbed the wastebasket and held it with one hand while he swept an entire shelf of Legos robotics into it. Of course, pieces bounced out, or caromed off the edge, but it felt liberating to see the cleared space.

It took half a dozen garbage bags, but Leo emptied his room of all the old pieces of himself; projects, robots, broken and abandoned tools, depleted art supplies, old text books and notebooks. There were a few things that escaped his destructive frenzy, including his sketchbooks. He decided to go find some boxes—the liquor store always had plenty—and he would box them up and not have to look at them.

He kept all the books from Maine. He could not—would not—give up Riario yet. 

*****

The frenzy for cleaning tempered after he finished his own room, but did not entirely abate. Okay, then, he could keep going. He tackled the kitchen first. The refrigerator was full of things that were slowly liquefying, or solidifying, in frankly horrifying ways. The milk came out of the carton in chunks that he poured down the disposal. Fruits and vegetables went into the garbage in whatever containers they were sitting in—he was not going to worry about saving Tupperware at this point.

The cupboards were a little harder—most of the food was presumably still usable, either cans or staples like flour and cereal. He threw away some, the left the rest in a box on the counter until he decided what to do with it.

In the end, he took it down to Andrea’s door and left it with a letter saying that they weren’t renewing the lease and everybody was moving out.

Once that decision was made, the rest was easy. Vanessa came over and packed the last of her stuff. Leo came out of his room to see her putting washed bedding into the linen closet.

“Julian has a California King bed.” Leo must have rolled his eyes, because Vanessa stopped talking.

“What? What about Julian and his Californian King?”

“Don’t even start with me, Leo, he is very tall and he can afford it. Anyway, none of these will fit, so I’ll just leave them for the next tenants. At least they will be clean.”

It made sense, so Leo did the same with the smaller beds in what had been Zo and Nico’s room. It felt terrible, going into that room. Nico had bagged up all his stuff soon after Zo had left, and taken Zo’s remaining possessions as well. Stripped bare, the mattresses gave the empty bedrooms a deeply melancholy air. Leo ended up pulling all the doors closed just so he didn’t have to see them.

Nobody wanted to take anything larger than they could carry, so all the furniture was being left behind. Andrea would be able to lease the place as furnished.

Andrea felt guilty about it. “But you bought these bookcases! And the chairs! And Vanessa had the dining table refinished just a few months ago! I can’t keep this.”

But nobody wanted it. So Leo told him “Just give the security deposits back, and we’ll consider it even.” It was a little windfall he could send Zo’s way, without seeming to patronize him.

He’d tried to patch things up with his old friend, after that disastrous visit. He’d sent a text, “Want to play poker next Thursday?” The message sat, delivered but unread, for two days, and then the answer came “Are you still fucking Riario?”

Leo had no answer for that. He wasn’t, not exactly, not technically, but not because he didn’t want to. It was only because Riario wasn’t coming around or answering his texts either. Looking back, Leo could convince himself that this was part of a cycle between the two of them. They would be inseparable, voracious, unable to stay apart, and then their real lives would intervene, and they would get distracted, distance themselves. Leo usually felt the absence first; but then he was the addict, Riario was the drug, so it was to be expected.

Nights were worst. The house was eerily quiet, there were no human sounds—Zo used to thrash around in his sleep. Leo had gotten used to the boom of Zo hitting the wall between the rooms sometimes, and now he missed it.

He also missed the sounds of Vanessa giggling with Julian, before she closed the door to her room; of Nico banging around in the kitchen or watching Mythbuster marathons. None of that happened any more. Leo had always thought he was isolated in his room while he obsessed over his builds. Until he faced real silence, he had not realized just how aware he was of his friends—his chosen family—around him, living their lives. Even when he was unaware, he had always been in the midst of them, and now they were all gone.

Andrea stopped by to check on him—the last time, Leo had given him the mug with his poker change in it. It had felt like closing the door on an era, and to his credit, Andrea received it with the solemnity of a high church ritual.

And still Riraio did not respond.

Leo knew how to track him down—they had been through this before, and he could at least recognize the pattern. He still had the master key, he knew where the man lived after all. But he couldn’t bring himself to chase him down again. He wasn’t proud of the way he craved sex, but he was too proud to chase him for it.

It was nearly the end of May when Leo finished clearing the house. The only room that had any personality was his, and even that was limited. He lay on his bed, naked on top of the covers, beneath the open window. May was warm, and the night breeze ruffled his hair. He felt disconnected from his own life; he didn’t have another place to go, and he had no interest in looking.

So he lay there, with nothing left to accomplish. All the items on his To Do list were checked off. He had boxed up his academic career and taped it shut. He had cleared the house and purged all the memories he could. He would have detoxed Riario out of his system if that had been possible, but it wasn’t. So he tried indulging his craving and thought about Riario.

His own hands on his skin were not enough, of course. They lacked the leverage, the casual savagery, the elegant domination of Riario’s hands. As a result, his body did not even respond, and he found himself unwilling to manufacture an indifferent erection, if he was the one who was going to release it anyway. It felt so pointless, so futile.

So he did what he found himself doing when he thought about Riario—he replayed that horrible day when the man destroyed Zo.

He and Zo had been sprawled out in the living room, exhaustedly calling each other names, fighting about—what had they been fighting about? Oh right. Well, that was worth a mirthless laugh. It had seemed so important at the time.

It had been about Leo’s insistence that he was going to interview with Wolf Mercuri, he was going to work at DRV because he was too clever to get fooled. Zo had really, desperately, wanted Leo to cancel the interview, to avoid the temptation. But when had Leo ever avoided temptation? Zo should have known better—telling Leo something was a bad idea was exactly what would drive him to do it. And Zo knew that, but he still kept trying to dissuade him. He obviously cared a great deal about this particular issue, because usually Zo would warn him once, maybe twice, and then he would shrug that particularly casual gesture of his, and back off. Get ready to clean up the disaster that would inevitably follow.

This time, though, Zo was worried enough that he didn’t, wouldn’t, couldn’t back off. _Because it really mattered this time, you prick_. Leo could hear Zo’s voice in his head. He was sorry he wasn’t paying attention at the time.

Leo realized he was spoiled. He was used to getting his way. He was used to being smarter and faster and more hardcore than anybody else, and he prided himself on his savvy and insight. But Zo _cared_ , and that made Zo the better man. Zo lived with his heart on his sleeve and he cared about Leo—possibly because Leo couldn’t seem to care for himself, so Zo had to do it for him.

And Riario had come over, and Vanessa had let him in and asked him to make the two of them stop arguing.

It was odd, this way of reviewing the events. Before, he had been self-centered—what had he done wrong, how could he have fixed it, prevented it, corrected it. This time, he was taking a different view, seeing things from other perspectives. He could see how frustrated Zo must have been with him—this one thing, the _one time_ Zo really needed Leo to pay attention, and Leo refused to.

And what about Riario? He had come in and backed Leo’s position. “Go ahead, take the interview, take the position. You are too clever to be caught, obviously.” It was a complete 180 from his previous advice. Riario had gotten angry before, raised his voice before, yelled “I tried to save you, but if you won’t save yourself you are going to get destroyed and I can’t stop you!” Again, he had only been trying to win his point; he hadn’t considered that Riario might also have had a valid point.

So that terrible day, Riario had thrown his support behind Leo, given him explicit permission to do what he was going to do anyway. He had allied himself, so that Riario and DRV were on the same side of the argument.

And then Riario had deliberately turned on Zo, and brought up the question of Nico. Looking back, there had been times when Riario had seemed worried about Nico, had wondered about the relationship between him and Zo, whether they were just sharing a room, or also sharing a bed. Yet he had never explicitly raised it until that day.

By raising it, he had destroyed not just Zo, but himself as well. He had burned his bridges with the rest of the group, had shown himself to be dangerous and twisted and willing to torch the place to the ground.

And Leo hadn’t gone to that interview.

Had that been the point?

Had Riario done it on purpose, used a nuclear option, in order to save Leo—even at the cost of everyone else around him? At the cost to himself as well? Because Riario had disappeared after that day, and had never responded to Leo.

Quickly, before he could second guess himself, he grabbed his phone and sent one last message to Riario’s number. “I canceled the interview. I never went.”

***** 

Leo was finally asleep when the response came at 5:15 the next morning. “I leave for Imola on Thursday.” 

*****

He took an Uber to the Medford’s the next day, with his box of the things he kept from the garbage. He rang the doorbell, and Lawrence opened the door.

“Oh, hi, is Vanessa here? I’m Leo, her old roommate.”

“Of course you are.” Lawrence led him to the back yard, where—to his delight, Vanessa was standing over a seated Zo. Nico was lounging nearby as well. Vanessa had an electric clipper in her hand, and she was giving Zo his annual buzz cut. It was like shearing sheep, relieving him of his year’s growth in order to feel the soft spring breezes on his scalp.

Of course it was awkward. Zo was pretty much immobilized, and Nico had no chill about the situation, because he’d confessed his crush to Leo, and now here he was, caught literally sitting at her feet. But Vanessa was cool and polite as always. Bless Vanessa—she was unchanging and wonderful as always.

“Leo! I hadn’t expected you to drop by.” She peered at him, and was as inconveniently insightful as ever. “Something is up. What’s on your mind?”

He decided to talk to her first. Vanessa would fix things, if they could be fixed, she would help him to explain himself. “I’m leaving Cambridge. I’m going in a couple of days. I have a box of things, I wonder if you would be able to keep them until I can send for them? I don’t have a new address yet.”

Vanessa smiled, and turned back to her task, scratching her delicate nails along Zo’s scalp to loosen the curls so she could clip them more evenly. “Of course, Leo. Do you have it here now?” At his assent, she tipped her head toward the back of the yard. “Go ahead and put it in the shed back there. It’s weatherproof, so it will be safe and out of the way. Just be sure you have your name on it.”

“Thank you.” He wanted to hug her, he wanted to kiss her, he wanted to pour out all his apologies for what had happened, for the ways he had taken her for granted. She really was beautiful—the way her red curls shone in the sunlight, the delicate pink of her cheeks made her eyes look even more blue than usual. He had stopped seeing her, and that was his loss. But she didn’t need him—she had Julian now, who obviously adored and appreciated her. She had Nico at her feet if she needed him, and Zo, who was fidgeting under her attentions only because Leo had arrived and made the situation uncomfortable.

“I’m going to leave. I know this is terrible, and it’s my fault. Zo, I owe you the most apologies, and I want you to know that I am going to fix this. I have a theory, I have an idea, and I think that I can fix this, but it’s going to take some time. So I’m going to go away for a while—the summer at least—and see if I’m right. I’ll let you know what I’m up to, and if I’m right—and c’mon, I’m usually right, aren’t I?—I hope I can come to you with a real apology and a real solution.”

Three sets of eyes were staring at him in dismay, in anger, and in hope. Vanessa hadn’t given up on him; he was counting on that. She was once again his savior. He clapped his hands together and began backing away toward the house. “I am so sorry, you guys. I never meant to hurt you—any of you. And I will do my best to make it up to you. All of you. Each of you. But I’ll go away and give you space, and time, and maybe once I get this done, you will be a little less mad, and maybe you can forgive me.”

He turned and ran through the house and back to the waiting car. He gave the driver a new address.

 

*****

Riario had the last of his books in a bag as he left his office for the final time. He had turned in the key to the graduate department and was no longer a Harvard Fellow. He was not entirely surprised to see Leo, scruffy and fidgeting, leaning against his car.

“Before you say anything, I think I figured it out.” Leo started talking before Riario was actually in range. Still the same Leo, then.

“That last day, when you came to the house, you had an agenda—you had a goal. You wanted to stop me from going to DRV, and you did it all for that. You disqualified yourself. Ha!” Leo was startled by his own understatement.  “Disqualified! You fucking burned all your bridges, Riario. You told me to go ahead and do it—join DRV, and then you turned yourself into a fucking leper with what you did. You made it impossible for me to take your side for anything. You destroyed yourself to save me.”

Leo was getting worked up as he spoke. Riario simply stood still, the afternoon sun beginning to disappear behind the campus buildings, casting long shadows. He stood, immobile, except for the wry smile that played across his lips.

“I don’t know how you did it, why you did it, but you destroyed everything. Completely. Thoroughly. You burned down the house and scattered the ashes and then you fucking sowed the ground with salt so nothing would grow there again.” Leo stopped pacing, and stalked up to the still figure. “You destroyed Zo; you destroyed me, you destroyed _us_ and you did it to save me. And it took me until now to see it.”

Abruptly,Leo pounded a fist to his forehead. “I am _such_ an idiot! I really didn’t see it at the time, but now it’s so clear! It’s so obvious—you tried to save us all.”

Riario shifted slightly, moving his weight from one foot to the other. Leo panicked, as if he had already begun to flee. “No, wait! Don’t go! Don’t leave yet, I need to tell you!” He turned away, and then whirled back again. “I get what you did. I should be mad—hell, I was mad. I mean, I was angry, but I was also mad. I couldn’t see that you and Zo, you were both in my way, but I didn’t want to be stopped. Zo tried to be logical, he tried to get me to see what he saw, he tried to use our friendship as a way to stop me from destroying myself.”

Leo was still pacing between Riario and the vehicle. “I couldn’t see it. I was too certain of my own brilliance. I was too focused on what I wanted. I didn’t see what you did until now.”

Riario pulled out his car keys, and opened the trunk to deposit his books. There were several other bags and boxes already inside. “I object to your characterization. I did what my conscience demanded. I was worried about Nico. I have seen my father destroy young men like that. I could not sit idly by and watch it happen again.”

Leo stopped for a second, confused. “But even if it was true, Zo wasn’t destroying. . .oh!” realization dawned across his face. “You father was going to come after Nico? Nico was in danger from your father?” He began pacing again, the quick motion of his legs a way to vent the energy of his whirring brain. “But that’s still the same thing! You made yourself a pariah, so there was no way Nico was ever going to consider anything remotely connected to you! None of us would, so you made it impossible for your father to recruit any of us, because he was _your father_ and we all hated you for what you did to Zo.”

Leo rubbed his hands over his face, trying to sort through all the implications. Riario closed the trunk and leaned against the rear of the car. In the fading light, his skin glowed pale, framed by his dark hair and beard. He was still all contrasts, buttoned up and primly dressed, Manichean in his black and white monochromatic dress. Yet inside that cool marble exterior, Leo knew _(had tasted, had touched)_ the passionate heat of the man.

“Take me with you.” It bubbled out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. “You are leaving, I have nothing to stay here for. Let me come with you.”

Riario laughed, his quietly devastating rasp sounding sarcastic, even before he spoke. “You don’t dare. You couldn’t trust me, not after what I did.”

Leo stopped his pacing, and stood, less than an arm’s length away. “The Riario I know did terrible things and felt terrible for doing them. Even the things he did for good reason. The Riario I know is still in there. Let me come with you and I’ll show you. I can save you, like you saved me.”

There was a long pause, as Riario considered this. Leo watched as the expressions flitted over that beautiful face.

“How dare you accuse me of such a saintly disposition, Leo.” It was not a question, and there was a smile hiding behind his severe expression. “I am dangerous and unpredictable, a destroyer of lives. I am not known for being self-sacrificing.”

Leo grinned, his nose wrinkled up. “So, maybe I’m wrong. But I need to know, and I need to. . .” he looked slyly out of the corner of his eye. “I need to go for a ride in your car.”

Riario very nearly smiled. “Things happen when you ride in my car.”

“That’s my plan.” He ran his hands through his hair, and laughed. “I don’t have anything left here. Nothing. I have to start over again, anyway.” He stepped closer, not touching, not yet, but close enough. “You aren’t leaving tonight, it’s too late. Come back to my place, there’s nobody there anymore. We can leave in the morning; I’ll pack some clothes in my duffle and we can go as early as you want.”

Riario crossed his arms, maintaining a distance, but not moving away. “I have seen that duffle; it is disreputable at best.” Leo gave a nod of acknowledgement.

It would be so easy, Riario thought. Just a matter of sliding a knee forward to nudge Leo’s thighs apart, a step and a twist, and he could have that alluring fool beneath him, pressed down on the trunk of the car. He thinned his lips, saw Leo’s eyes watching hungrily; it would take only the slightest of effort to capture that mouth with his own.

He would not do it here, not in the open like this, and not now. There were too many things they needed to address.

“Have you forgiven my transgressions? You don’t know them all yet.”

Leo didn’t move his feet, but he leaned in, his face all but touching Riario’s so he could whisper into his ear. “Let me show you some of my own.” The hot breath and the rasping offer set off the fires in Riario’s belly, and he stifled a moan. Leo pulled back enough to look into his face, triumph in his expression.

“You seem determined to make me embarrass myself here, in the parking lot.” Riario’s own voice was barely louder than a whisper. “Are you certain you want. . . .” The question trailed off in the face of Leo’s look of avid hunger.

“Take me,” he said. “Take me home, take me in your car, take me to Imola. I have nothing here, let me jump into the fire with you.”

It was a terrible idea, which was what happened when he was around Leo. His deliberate rationality tended to get overridden by Leo’s extravagant carnality. His skin prickled in the charged atmosphere of the car, heat and electricity surging between the two of them on the short drive. Once at the house, Riario had only seconds to notice how vacant it seemed, before Leo was kissing him, licking against his lips.

And oh it felt so good, that body molded against his own, those fingers tangling in his hair, the press of the muscled chest against his own, the heat of Leo’s thighs radiating through their clothing. He would not surrender, however, without one more attempt to let Leo understand the scope of his transgressions. Absolution was ineffective if confession was incomplete.

“Leo, wait, you need to. . . .” The kisses rained, hot and wet, across his face and down his neck, making it hard to speak. “There is someone, _oh god_. . . .” Leo seemed determined to stopper Riario’s words, tongue slipping against his own as Leo’s hands roamed beneath his shirt, fingers finding and tweaking a nipple. His moan sounded distant in his own ears.

“Don’t care,” Leo breathed.

Those artist’s hands were sliding beneath the waistband of his pants, fingers already on the swell of his buttocks, and he forced the words out before he could take the coward’s way out and just give in. “There is a woman, Leo, a woman in Imola who I. . . .”

Again, the kisses stopped the words. “Not a deal breaker, Riario. Not for me. 

He had tried, he could console himself with that for now. Because for now, there was Leo; infuriating, intoxicating Leo, pressed up against him. He let his defenses fall, let his desire roar past his good sense. There was tomorrow, and the next day, hundreds of miles of road, hours of time ahead of them when they could talk. They would talk, they had to, but not now, not with his blood rushing in his ears and Leo’s tongue and hands and body driving conscious thought from his mind.

Later, there would still be time for all that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, dear Learians, that is it! You made it! Thank you to everybody who read, left kudos and comments, and stuck with this monster sized fic. When I started it, I had zero idea it would balloon to be so large! Did you know that 100K words would be about 400 pages if published in book form? I am stunned as well!
> 
> What? You say this wasn't a clear enough ending? You have questions about how these two fools will fare in a new setting? There was not enough Zita? (There is never enough Zita!)
> 
> Well, you may be in luck, because this story and these characters have taken over my brain and have already conspired to begin plotting a sequel, to take place at Imola College in the summer months immediately following this story. Current thinking is that it will be lighter in tone, with much less foreboding and significantly less Alessandro. 
> 
> Here is a link to the song that provided my mental soundtrack for so much of the writing of this fic, "No One's Here to Sleep" by Naughty Boy, featuring Bastille. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JW6WOBk0cfE
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> This is a long one; an epic farewell to the fans of this outrageous show. I will try to stay current on tags as each new chapter goes up--some characters and situations won't appear for quite a while, so I'm not putting those in yet. Please feel free to suggest anything that needs to be tagged or acknowledged, trigger warnings, etc. Comments, suggestions, rants, and vents are cheerfully accepted.


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